THE SCHOOL of St Margaret's Hospital was fortunate in its lecturer onMedical Jurisprudence, or Forensic Medicine, as it is sometimesdescribed. At some schools the lecturer on this subject is appointedapparently for the reason that he lacks the qualifications to lectureon any other. But with us it was very different: John Thorndyke wasnot only an enthusiast, a man of profound learning and greatreputation, but he was an exceptional teacher, lively and fascinatingin style and of endless resources. Every remarkable case that had everbeen reported he appeared to have at his fingers' ends; every fact--chemical, physical, biological, or even historical--that could in anyway be twisted into a medico-legal significance, was pressed into hisservice; and his own varied and curious experiences seemed asinexhaustible as the widow's cruse. One of his favourite devices forgiving life and interest to a rather dry subject was that of analysingand commenting upon contemporary cases as reported in the papers(always, of course, with a due regard to the legal and socialproprieties); and it was in this way that I first became introduced tothe astonishing series of events that was destined to exercise sogreat an influence on my own life.

The lecture which had just been concluded had dealt with the ratherunsatisfactory subject of survivorship. Most of the students had leftthe theatre, and the remainder had gathered round the lecturer's tableto listen to the informal comments that Dr. Thorndyke was wont todeliver on these occasions in an easy, conversational manner, leaningagainst the edge of the table and apparently addressing his remarks toa stick of blackboard chalk that he held in his fingers.

'The problem of survivorship,' he was saying, in reply to a questionput by one of the students, 'ordinarily occurs in cases where thebodies of the parties are producible, or where, at any rate, theoccurrence of death and its approximate time are actually known. Butan analogous difficulty may arise in a case where the body of one ofthe parties is not forthcoming, and the fact of death may have to beassumed on collateral evidence.

'Here, of course, the vital question to be settled is, what is thelatest instant at which it is certain that this person was alive? Andthe settlement of that question may turn on some circumstance of themost trivial and insignificant kind. There is a case in this morning'spaper which illustrates this. A gentleman has disappeared rathermysteriously. He was last seen by the servant of a relative at whosehouse he had called. Now, if this gentleman should never reappear,dead or alive, the question as to what was the latest moment at whichhe was certainly alive will turn upon the further question: "Was he orwas he not wearing a particular article of jewellery when he called atthe relative's house?"'

He paused with a reflective eye bent upon the stump of chalk he stillheld; then, noting the expectant interest with which we were regardinghim, he resumed:

'The circumstances in this case are very curious; in fact, they arehighly mysterious; and if any legal issues should arise in respect ofthem, they are likely to yield some very remarkable complications. Thegentleman who has disappeared, Mr. John Bellingham, is a man wellknown in archaeological circles. He recently returned from Egypt,bringing with him a very fine collection of antiquities--some ofwhich, by the way, he has presented to the British Museum, where theyare now on view--and having made this presentation, he appears to havegone to Paris on business. I may mention that the gift consisted of avery fine mummy and a complete set of tomb-furniture. The latter,however, had not arrived from Egypt at the time when the missing manleft for Paris, but the mummy was inspected on the fourteenth ofOctober at Mr. Bellingham's house by Dr. Norbury of the BritishMuseum, in the presence of the donor and his solicitor, and the latterwas authorised to hand over the complete collection to the BritishMuseum authorities when the tomb-furniture arrived; which he has sincedone.

'From Paris he seems to have returned on the twenty-third of November,and to have gone direct to Charing Cross to the house of a relative, aMr. Hurst, who is a bachelor and lives at Eltham. He appeared at thehouse at twenty minutes past five, and as Mr. Hurst had not yet comedown from town and was not expected until a quarter to six, heexplained who he was and said he would wait in the study and writesome letters. The housemaid accordingly showed him into the study,furnished him with writing materials, and left him.

'At a quarter to six Mr. Hurst let himself in with his latchkey, andbefore the housemaid had time to speak to him he had passed throughinto the study and shut the door.

'At six o'clock, when the dinner bell was rung, Mr. Hurst entered thedining-room alone, and observing the table was laid for two, asked thereason.

'On this a search was made for the visitor, with the result that hewas nowhere to be found. He had disappeared without leaving a trace,and what made the incident more odd was that the housemaid was certainthat he had not gone out by the front door. For since neither she northe cook was acquainted with Mr. John Bellingham, she had remained thewhole time either in the kitchen, which commanded a view of the frontgate, or in the dining-room, which opened into the hall opposite thestudy door. The study itself has a French window opening on a narrowgrass plot, across which is a side-gate that opens into an alley; andit appears that Mr. Bellingham must have made his exit by this rathereccentric route. At any rate--and this is the important fact--he wasnot in the house, and no one had seen him leave it.

'After a hasty meal Mr. Hurst returned to town and called at theoffice of Mr. Bellingham's solicitor and confidential agent, a Mr.Jellicoe, and mentioned the matter to him. Mr. Jellicoe knew nothingof his client's return from Paris, and the two men at once took thetrain down to Woodford, where the missing man's brother, Mr. GodfreyBellingham, lives. The servant who admitted them said that Mr. Godfreywas not at home, but that his daughter was in the library, which is adetached building situated in a shrubbery beyond the garden at theback of the house. Here the two men found, not only Miss Bellingham,but also her father, who had come in by the back gate.

'Mr. Godfrey and his daughter listened to Mr. Hurst's story with thegreatest surprise, and assured him that they had neither seen norheard anything of John Bellingham.

'Presently the party left the library to walk up to the house; butonly a few feet from the library door Mr. Jellicoe noticed an objectlying in the grass and pointed it out to Mr. Godfrey.

'The latter picked it up, and they all recognised it as a scarab whichMr. John Bellingham had been accustomed to wear suspended from hiswatch-chain. There was no mistaking it. It was a very fine scarab ofthe eighteenth dynasty fashioned of lapis lazuli and engraved with thecartouche of Amenhotep III. It had been suspended by a gold ringfastened to a wire which passed through the suspension hole, and thering, though broken, was still in position.

'This discovery of course only added to the mystery, which was stillfurther increased when, on inquiry, a suit-case bearing the initialsJ. B. was found to be unclaimed in the cloak-room at Charing Cross.Reference to the counterfoil of the ticket-book showed that it hadbeen deposited about the time of the arrival of the Continentalexpress on the twenty-third of November, so that its owner must havegone straight on to Eltham.

'That is how the affair stands at present, and, should the missing mannever reappear or should his body never be found, the question, as yousee, which will be required to be settled is, "What is the exact timeand place, when and where, he was last known to be alive!" As to theplace, the importance of the issues involved in that question areobvious and we need not consider them. But the question of time hasanother kind of significance. Cases have occurred, as I pointed out inthe lecture, in which proof of survivorship by less than a minute hassecured succession to property. Now, the missing man was last seenalive at Mr. Hurst's house at twenty minutes past five on the twenty-third of November. But he appears to have visited his brother's houseat Woodford, and, since nobody saw him at that house, it is at presentuncertain whether he went there before calling on Mr. Hurst. If hewent there first, then twenty minutes past five on the evening of thetwenty-third is the latest moment at which he is known to have beenalive; but if he went there after, there would have to be added tothis time the shortest time possible in which he could travel from theone house to the other.

'But the question as to which house he visited first hinges on thescarab. If he was wearing the scarab when he arrived at Mr. Hurst'shouse, it would be certain that he went there first; but if it was notthen on his watch-chain, a probability would be established that hewent first to Woodford. Thus, you see, a question which mayconceivably become of the most vital moment in determining thesuccession of property turns on the observation or non-observation bythis housemaid of an apparently trivial and insignificant fact.'

'Has the servant made any statement on this subject, sir?' I venturedto enquire.

'Apparently not,' replied Dr. Thorndyke; 'at any rate, there is noreference to any such statement in the newspaper report, thoughotherwise, the case is reported in great detail; indeed, the wealth ofdetail, including plans of the two houses, is quite remarkable andwell worth noting as being in itself a fact of considerable interest.'

'In what respect, sir, is it of interest?' one of the students asked.

'Ah,' replied Dr. Thorndyke, 'I think I must leave you to considerthat question yourself. This is an untried case, and we mustn't makefree with the actions and motives of individuals.'

'Does the paper give any description of the missing man, sir?' Iasked.

'Yes; quite an exhaustive description. Indeed, it is exhaustive to theverge of impropriety, considering that the man may turn up alive andwell at any moment. It seems that he has an old Pott's fracture of theleft ankle, a linear, longitudinal scar on each knee--origin notstated, but easily guessed at--and that he has tattooed on his chestin vermilion a very finely and distinctly executed representation ofthe symbolical Eye of Osiris--or Horus or Ra, as the differentauthorities have it. There certainly ought to be no difficulty inidentifying the body. But we hope that it will not come to that.

'And now I must really be running away, and so must you; but I wouldadvise you all to get copies of the paper and file them when you haveread the remarkably full details. It is a most curious case, and it ishighly probable that we shall hear of it again. Good afternoon,gentlemen.'

Dr Thorndyke's advice appealed to all who heard it, for medicaljurisprudence was a live subject at St Margaret's, and all of us werekeenly interested in it. As a result, we sallied forth in a body tothe nearest newsvendor's, and, having each provided himself with acopy of the Daily Telegraph, adjourned together to the Common Room todevour the report and thereafter to discuss the bearings of the case,unhampered by those considerations of delicacy that afflicted our moresqueamish and scrupulous teacher.

CHAPTER II. THE EAVESDROPPER

IT IS one of the canons of correct conduct, scrupulously adhered to(when convenient) by all well-bred persons, that an acquaintanceshould be initiated by a proper introduction. To this salutary rule,which I have disregarded to the extent of an entire chapter, I nowhasten to conform; and the more so inasmuch as nearly two years havepassed since my first informal appearance.

Permit me then, to introduce Paul Berkeley, MB, etc., recently--veryrecently--qualified, faultlessly attired in the professional frock-coat and tall hat, and, at the moment of introduction, navigating withanxious care a perilous strait between a row of well-filled coal-sacksand a colossal tray piled high with kidney potatoes.

The passage of this strait landed me on the terra firma of Fleur-de-Lys Court, where I halted for a moment to consult my visiting list.There was only one more patient for me to see this morning, and helived at 49, Nevill's Court, wherever that might be. I turned forinformation to the presiding deity of the coal shop.

'Can you direct me, Mrs. Jablett, to Nevill's Court?'

She could and she did, grasping me confidentially by the arm (the markremained on my sleeve for weeks) and pointing a shaking forefinger atthe dead wall ahead. 'Nevill's Court', said Mrs. Jablett, 'is a alley,and you goes into it through a archway. It turns out on Fetter Lane onthe right and as you goes up, oppersight Bream's Buildings.'

I thanked Mrs. Jablett and went on my way, glad that the morning roundwas nearly finished, and vaguely conscious of a growing appetite andof a desire to wash in hot water.

The practice which I was conducting was not my own. It belonged topoor Dick Barnard, an old St Margaret's man of irrepressible spiritsand indifferent physique, who had started only the day before for atrip down the Mediterranean on board a tramp engaged in the curranttrade; and this, my second morning's round, was in some sort a voyageof geographical discovery.

I walked on briskly up Fetter Lane until a narrow arched opening,bearing the superscription 'Nevill's Court', arrested my steps, andhere I turned to encounter one of those surprises that lie in wait forthe traveller in London by-ways. Expecting to find the grey squalor ofthe ordinary London court, I looked out from under the shadow of thearch past a row of decent little shops through a vista full of lightand colour--a vista of ancient, warm-toned roofs and walls relieved bysunlit foliage. In the heart of London a tree is always a delightfulsurprise; but here were not only trees, but bushes and even flowers.The narrow footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with theirwooden palings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the place an air ofquaint and sober rusticity; and even as I entered a bevy of workgirls,with gaily-coloured blouses and hair aflame in the sunlight,brightened up the quiet background like the wild flowers that spranglea summer hedgerow.

In one of the gardens I noticed that the little paths were paved withwhat looked like circular tiles, but which, on inspection, I found tobe old-fashioned stone ink-bottles, buried bottom upwards; and I wasmeditating upon the quaint conceit of the forgotten scrivener who hadthus adorned his habitation--a law-writer perhaps or an author, orperchance even a poet--when I perceived the number that I was seekinginscribed on a shabby door in a high wall. There was no bell orknocker, so, lifting the latch, I pushed the door open and entered.

But if the court itself had been a surprise, this was a positivewonder, a dream. Here, within earshot of the rumble of Fleet Street, Iwas in an old-fashioned garden enclosed by high walls and, now thatthe gate was shut, cut off from all sight and knowledge of the urbanworld that seethed without. I stood and gazed in delightedastonishment. Sun-gilded trees and flower beds gay with blossom;lupins, snapdragons, nasturtiums, spiry foxgloves, and mightyhollyhocks formed the foreground; over which a pair of sulphur-tintedbutterflies flitted, unmindful of a buxom and miraculously clean whitecat which pursued them, dancing across the borders and clapping hersnowy paws fruitlessly in mid-air. And the background was no lesswonderful; a grand old house, dark-eaved and venerable, that must havelooked down on this garden when ruffled dandies were borne in sedanchairs through the court, and gentle Izaak Walton, stealing forth fromhis shop in Fleet Street, strolled up Fetter Lane to 'go a-angling' atTemple Mills.

So overpowered was I by this unexpected vision that my hand was on thebottom knob of a row of bell-pulls before I recollected myself; and itwas not until a most infernal jangling from within recalled me to mybusiness that I observed underneath it a small brass plate inscribed'Miss Oman'.

The door opened with some suddenness and a short, middle-aged womansurveyed me hungrily.

'Have I rung the wrong bell?' I asked--foolishly enough, I must admit.

'How can I tell?' she demanded. 'I expect you have. It's the sort ofthing a man would do--ring the wrong bell and then say he's sorry.'

'I didn't go as far as that,' I retorted. 'It seems to have had thedesired effect, and I've made your acquaintance into the bargain.'

'Whom do you want to see?' she asked.

'Mr. Bellingham.'

'Are you the doctor?'

'I'm a doctor.'

'Follow me upstairs,' said Miss Oman, 'and don't tread on the paint.'

I crossed the spacious hall, and, preceded by my conductress, ascendeda noble oak staircase, treading carefully on a ribbon of matting thatran up the middle. On the first-floor landing Miss Oman opened a doorand, pointing to the room, said, 'Go in there and wait; I'll tell heryou're here.'

'I said Mr. Bellingham--' I began; but the door slammed on me, andMiss Oman's footsteps retreated rapidly down the stairs.

It was at once obvious to me that I was in a very awkward position.The room into which I had been shown communicated with another, andthough the door of communication was shut, I was unpleasantly aware ofa conversation that was taking place in the adjoining room. At first,indeed, only a vague mutter, with a few disjointed phrases, camethrough the door, but suddenly an angry voice rang out clear andpainfully distinct:

'Yes, I did! And I say it again. Bribery! Collusion! That's what itamounts to. You want to square me!'

'Nothing of the kind, Godfrey,' was the reply in a lower tone; but atthis point I coughed emphatically and moved a chair, and the voicessubsided once more into an indistinct murmur.

To distract my attention from my unseen neighbours I glanced curiouslyabout the room and speculated upon the personal ties of its occupants.A very curious room it was, with its pathetic suggestion of decayedsplendour and old-world dignity; a room full of interest and characterand of contrasts and perplexing contradictions. For the most part itspoke of unmistakable though decent poverty. It was nearly bare offurniture, and what little there was was of the cheapest--a smallkitchen table and three Windsor chairs (two of them with arms); athreadbare string carpet on the floor, and a cheap cotton cloth on thetable; these, with a set of bookshelves, frankly constructed ofgrocer's boxes, formed the entire suite. And yet, despite its poverty,the place exhaled an air of homely if rather ascetic comfort, and thetaste was irreproachable. The quiet russet of the table-cloth struck apleasant harmony with the subdued bluish green of the worn carpet; theWindsor chairs and the legs of the table had been carefully denuded oftheir glaring varnish and stained a sober brown; and the austerity ofthe whole was relieved by a ginger jar filled with fresh-cut flowersand set in the middle of the table.

But the contrasts of which I have spoken were most singular andpuzzling. There were the bookshelves, for instance, home made andstained at the cost of a few pence, but filled with recent and costlynew works on archaeology and ancient art. There were the objects onthe mantelpiece: a facsimile in bronze--not bronze plaster--of thebeautiful head of Hypnos and a pair of fine Ushabti figures. Therewere the decorations of the walls, a number of etchings--signedproofs, every one of them--of Oriental subjects, and a splendidfacsimile reproduction of an Egyptian papyrus. It was incongruous inthe extreme, this mingling of costly refinements with the barest andshabbiest necessaries of life, of fastidious culture with manifestpoverty. I could make nothing of it. What manner of man, I wondered,was this new patient of mine? Was he a miser, hiding himself and hiswealth in this obscure court? An eccentric savant? A philosopher? Or--more probably--a crank? But at this point my meditations wereinterrupted by the voice from the adjoining room, once more raised inanger.

'Tut I say that you are making an accusation! You are implying that Imade away with him.'

'Not at all,' was the reply; 'but I repeat that it is your business toascertain what has become of him. The responsibility rests upon you.'

'Upon me!' rejoined the first voice. 'And what about you? Yourposition is a pretty fishy one if it comes to that.'

'What!' roared the other. 'Do you insinuate that I murdered my ownbrother?'

During this amazing colloquy I had stood gaping with sheerastonishment. Suddenly I recollected myself, and dropping into achair, set my elbows on my knees and clapped my hands over my ears;and thus I must have remained for a full minute when I became aware ofthe closing of a door behind me.

I sprang to my feet and turned in some embarrassment (for I must havelooked unspeakably ridiculous) to confront the sombre figure of arather tall and strikingly handsome girl, who, as she stood with herhand on the knob of the door, saluted me with a formal bow. In aninstantaneous glance I noted how perfectly she matched her strangesurroundings. Black-robed, black-haired, with black-grey eyes and agrave sad face of ivory pallor, she stood, like one of old Terboch'sportraits, a harmony in tones so low as to be but a step removed frommonochrome. Obviously a lady in spite of the worn and rusty dress, andsomething in the poise of the head and the set of the straight browshinted at a spirit that adversity had hardened rather than broken.

'I must ask you to forgive me for keeping you waiting,' she said; andas she spoke a certain softening at the corners of the austere mouthreminded me of the absurd position in which she had found me.

I murmured that the trifling delay was of no consequence whatever;that I had, in fact, been rather glad of the rest; and I was beginningsomewhat vaguely to approach the subject of the invalid when the voicefrom the adjoining room again broke forth with hideous distinctness.

'I tell you I'll do nothing of the kind! Why, confound you, it'snothing less than a conspiracy that you're proposing!'

Miss Bellingham--as I assumed her to be--stepped quickly across thefloor, flushing angrily, as well she might; but, as she reached thedoor, it flew open and a small, spruce, middle-aged man burst into theroom.

'Your father is mad, Ruth!' he exclaimed; 'absolutely stark mad! And Irefuse to hold any further communication with him.'

'The present interview was not of his seeking,' Miss Bellinghamreplied coldly.

'No, it was not,' was the wrathful rejoinder; 'it was my mistakengenerosity. But there--what is the use of talking? I've done my bestfor you and I'll do no more. Don't trouble to let me out; I can findmy way. Good-morning.' With a stiff bow and a quick glance at me, thespeaker strode out of the room, banging the door after him.

'I must apologise for this extraordinary reception,' said MissBellingham; 'but I believe medical men are not easily astonished. Iwill introduce you to your patient now.' She opened the door and, as Ifollowed her into the adjoining room, she said: 'Here is anothervisitor for you, dear. Doctor--'

'Berkeley,' said I. 'I am acting for my friend Doctor Barnard.'

The invalid, a fine-looking man of about fifty-five, who sat proppedup in bed with a pile of pillows, held out an excessively shaky hand,which I grasped cordially, making a mental note of the tremor.

'Oh, no,' I answered; 'he has gone for a trip down the Mediterraneanon a currant ship. The chance occurred rather suddenly, and I bustledhim off before he had time to change his mind. Hence my ratherunceremonious appearance, which I hope you will forgive.'

'Not at all,' was the hearty response. 'I'm delighted to hear that yousent him off; he wanted a holiday, poor man. And I am delighted tomake your acquaintance, too.'

'It is very good of you,' I said; whereupon he bowed as gracefully asa man may who is propped up in bed with a heap of pillows; and havingthus exchanged broadsides of civility, so to speak, we--or, at least,I--proceeded to business.

'How long have you been laid up?' I asked cautiously, not wishing tomake too evident the fact that my principal had given me noinformation respecting his case.

'A week to-day,' he replied. 'Thefons et origo mail was a hansom-cabwhich upset me opposite the Law Courts--sent me sprawling in themiddle of the road. My own fault, of course--at least, the cabby saidso, and I suppose he knew. But that was no consolation to me.'

'Were you hurt much?'

'No, not really; but the fall bruised my knee rather badly and gave mea deuce of a shake up. I'm too old for that sort of thing, you know.'

'Most people are,' said I.

'True; but you can take a cropper more gracefully at twenty than atfifty-five. However, the knee is getting on quite well--you shall seeit presently--and you observe that I am giving it complete rest. Butthat isn't the whole of the trouble or the worst of it. It's myconfounded nerves. I'm as irritable as the devil and as nervous as acat. And I can't get a decent night's rest.'

I recalled the tremulous hand that he had offered me. He did not looklike a drinker, but still--

'Do you smoke much?' I inquired diplomatically.

He looked at me slyly and chuckled. 'That's a very delicate way toapproach the subject, Doctor,' he said. 'No, I don't smoke much, and Idon't crook my little finger. I saw you look at my shaky hand justnow--oh, it's all right; I'm not offended. It's a doctor's business tokeep lifting his eyelids. But my hand is steady enough as a rule, whenI'm not upset, but the least excitement sets me shaking like a jelly.And the fact is that I have just had a deucedly unpleasant interview--'

'And audibly,' his daughter added. 'Do you know that Doctor Berkeleywas reduced to the necessity of stopping his ears?' She glanced at meas she spoke, with something like a twinkle in her solemn grey eyes.

'Did I shout?' Mr. Bellingham asked, not very contritely, I thought,though he added: 'I'm very sorry, my dear; but it won't happen again.I think we've seen the last of that good gentleman.'

'I am sure I hope so,' she rejoined, adding: 'And now I will leave youto your talk; I shall be in the next room if you should want me.'

I opened the door for her, and when she had passed out with a stifflittle bow I seated myself by the bedside and resumed theconsultation. It was evidently a case of breakdown, to which the cabaccident had, no doubt, contributed. As to the other antecedents, theywere of no concern of mine, though Mr. Bellingham seemed to thinkotherwise, for he resumed: 'That cab business was the last straw, youknow, and it finished me off, but I have been going down the hill fora long time. I've had a lot of trouble during the last two years. ButI suppose I oughtn't to pester you with the details of my personalaffairs.'

'Anything that bears on your present state of health is of interest tome if you don't mind telling me it,' I said.

'Mind!' he exclaimed. 'Did you ever meet an invalid who didn't enjoytalking about his own health? It's the listener who minds, as a rule.'

'Well, the present listener doesn't,' I said.

'Then,' said Mr. Bellingham, 'I'll treat myself to the luxury oftelling you all my troubles; I don't often get the chance of aconfidential grumble to a responsible man of my own class. And Ireally have some excuses for railing at Fortune, as you will agreewhen I tell you that, a couple of years ago, I went to bed one night agentleman of independent means and excellent prospects and woke up inthe morning to find myself practically a beggar. Not a cheerfulexperience that, you know, at my time of life, eh?'

'No,' I agreed, 'not at any other.'

'And that was not all,' he continued; 'For at the same moment I lostmy brother, my dearest, kindest friend. He disappeared--vanished offthe face of the earth; but perhaps you have heard of the affair. Theconfounded papers were full of it at the time.'

He paused abruptly, noticing, no doubt, a sudden change in my face. Ofcourse, I recollected the case now. Indeed, ever since I had enteredthe house some chord of memory had been faintly vibrating, and now hislast words had struck out the full note.

'Yes,' I said, 'I remember the incident, though I don't suppose Ishould but for the fact that our lecturer on medical jurisprudencedrew my attention to it.'

'Indeed,' said Mr. Bellingham, rather uneasily, as I fancied. 'Whatdid he say about it?'

'He referred to it as a case that was calculated to give rise to somevery pretty legal complications.'

'By Jove!' exclaimed Bellingham, 'that man was a prophet! Legalcomplications, indeed! But I'll be bound he never guessed at the sortof infernal tangle that has actually gathered round the affair. By theway, what was his name?'

'Thorndyke,' I replied. 'Doctor John Thorndyke.'

'Thorndyke,' Mr. Bellingham repeated in a musing, retrospective tone.'I seem to remember the name. Yes, of course. I have heard a legalfriend of mine, a Mr. Marchmont, speak of him in reference to the caseof a man whom I knew slightly years ago--a certain Jeffrey Blackmore,who also disappeared very mysteriously. I remember now that Dr.Thorndyke unravelled that case with most remarkable ingenuity.'

'I daresay he would be very much interested to hear about your case,'I suggested.

'I daresay he would,' was the reply; 'but one can't take up aprofessional man's time for nothing, and I couldn't afford to pay him.And that reminds me that I'm taking up your time by gossiping aboutpurely personal affairs.'

'My morning round is finished,' said I, 'and, moreover, your personalaffairs are highly interesting. I suppose I mustn't ask what is thenature of the legal entanglement?'

'Not unless you are prepared to stay here for the rest of the day andgo home a raving lunatic. But I'll tell you this much: the trouble isabout my poor brother's will. In the first place it can't beadministered because there is not sufficient evidence that my brotheris dead; and in the second place, if it could, all the property wouldgo to people who were never intended to benefit. The will itself isthe most diabolically exasperating document that was ever produced bythe perverted ingenuity of a wrong-headed man. That's all. Will youhave a look at my knee?'

As Mr. Bellingham's explanation (delivered in a rapid crescendo andending almost in a shout) had left him purple-faced and trembling, Ithought it best to bring our talk to an end. Accordingly I proceededto inspect the injured knee, which was now nearly well, and tooverhaul my patient generally; and having given him detailedinstructions as to his general conduct, I rose and took my leave.

'And remember,' I said as I shook his hand, 'no tobacco, no coffee, noexcitement of any kind. Lead a quiet, bovine life.'

'That's all very well,' he grumbled, 'but supposing people come hereand excite me?'

'Disregard them,' said I, 'and read Whitaker's Almanack.' And withthis parting advice I passed out into the other room.

Miss Bellingham was seated at the table with a pile of blue-coverednotebooks before her, two of which were open, displaying pages closelywritten in a small, neat handwriting. She rose as I entered and lookedat me inquiringly.

'I heard you advising my father to read Whitaker's Almanack,' shesaid. 'Was that a curative measure?'

'Entirely,' I replied. 'I recommended it for its medicinal virtues, asan antidote to mental excitement.'

She smiled faintly. 'It certainly is not a highly emotional book,' shesaid, and then asked: 'Have you any other instructions to give?'

'Well, I might give the conventional advice--to maintain a cheerfuloutlook and avoid worry; but I don't suppose you would find it veryhelpful.'

'No,' she answered bitterly; 'it is a counsel of perfection. People inour position are not a very cheerful class, I'm afraid; but still theydon't seek out worries from sheer perverseness. The worries comeunsought. But, of course, you can't enter into that.'

'I can't give you any practical help, I fear, though I do sincerelyhope that your father's affairs will straighten themselves out soon.'

She thanked me for my good wishes and accompanied me down to thestreet door, where, with a bow and a rather stiff handshake, she gaveme my conge.

Very ungratefully the noise of Fetter Lane smote on my ears as I cameout through the archway, and very squalid and unrestful the littlestreet looked when contrasted with the dignity and monastic quiet ofthe old garden. As to the surgery, with its oilcloth floor and wallsmade hideous with gaudy insurance show-cards in sham gilt frailties,its aspect was so revolting that I flew to the day-book fordistraction, and was still busily entering the morning's visits whenthe bottle-boy, Adolphus, entered stealthily to announce lunch.

CHAPTER III. JOHN THORNDYKE

THAT THE character of an individual tends to be reflected in his dressis a fact familiar to the least observant. That the observation isequally applicable to aggregates of men is less familiar, but equallytrue. Do not the members of the fighting professions, even to thisday, deck themselves in feathers, in gaudy colours and gildedornaments, after the manner of the African war-chief or the Redskin'brave', and thereby indicate the place of war in modern civilisation?Does not the Church of Rome send her priests to the altar inhabiliments that were fashionable before the fall of the Roman Empire,in token of her immovable conservatism? And, lastly, does not the Law,lumbering on in the wake of progress, symbolise its subjection toprecedent by head-gear reminiscent of the good days of Queen Anne?

I should apologise for obtruding upon the reader these somewhat tritereflections; which were set going by the quaint stock-in-trade of thewig-maker's shop in the cloisters of the Inner Temple, whither Istrayed on a sultry afternoon in quest of shade and quiet. I hadhalted opposite the little shop window, and, with my eyes bentdreamily on the row of wigs, was pursuing the above train of thoughtwhen I was startled by a deep voice saying softly in my ear: 'I'd havethe full-bottomed one if I were you.'

I turned swiftly and rather fiercely, and looked into the face of myold friend and fellow-student, Jervis, behind whom, regarding us witha sedate smile, stood my former teacher, Dr. John Thorndyke. Both mengreeted me with a warmth that I felt to be very flattering, forThorndyke was quite a great personage, and even Jervis was severalyears my academic senior.

'You are coming in to have a cup of tea with us, I hope,' saidThorndyke; and as I assented gladly, he took my arm and led me acrossthe court in the direction of the Treasury.

'But why that hungry gaze at those forensic vanities, Berkeley?' heasked. 'Are you thinking of following my example and Jervis's--deserting the bedside for the Bar?'

'What! Has Jervis gone in for the law?' I exclaimed.

'Bless you, yes!' replied Jervis. 'I have become parasitical onThorndyke! "The big fleas have little fleas", you know. I am theadditional fraction trailing after the whole number in the rear of adecimal point.'

'Don't you believe him, Berkeley,' interposed Thorndyke. 'He is thebrains of the firm. I supply the respectability and moral worth. Butyou haven't answered my question. What are you doing here on a summerafternoon staring into a wig-maker's window?'

'I am Barnard's locum; he is in practice in Fetter Lane.'

'I know,' said Thorndyke; 'we meet him occasionally, and very pale andpeaky he has been looking of late. Is he taking a holiday?'

'Yes. He has gone for a trip to the Isles of Greece in a currantship.'

'Then,' said Jervis, 'you are actually a local GP. I thought you werelooking beastly respectable.'

'And judging from your leisured manner when we encountered you,' addedThorndyke, 'the practice is not a strenuous one. I suppose it isentirely local?'

'Yes,' I replied. 'The patients mostly live in the small streets andcourts within a half-mile radius of the surgery, and the abodes ofsome of them are pretty squalid. Oh! and that reminds me of a verystrange coincidence. It will interest you, I think.'

'Life is made up of strange coincidences,' said Thorndyke. 'Nobody buta reviewer of novels is ever really surprised at a coincidence. Butwhat is yours?'

'It is connected with a case that you mentioned to us at the hospitalabout two years ago, the case of a man who disappeared under rathermysterious circumstances. Do you remember it? The man's name wasBellingham.'

'The brother is a patient of mine. He is living in Nevill's Court withhis daughter, and they seem to be as poor as church mice.'

'Really,' said Thorndyke, 'this is quite interesting. They must havecome down in the world rather suddenly. If I remember rightly, thebrother was living in a house of some pretensions standing in its owngrounds.'

'Yes, that is so. I see you recollect all about the case.'

'My dear fellow,' said Jervis, 'Thorndyke never forgets a likely case.He is a sort of medico-legal camel. He gulps down the raw facts fromthe newspapers or elsewhere, and then, in his leisure moments, hecalmly regurgitates them and has a quiet chew at them. It is a quainthabit. A case crops up in the papers or in one of the courts, andThorndyke swallows it whole. Then it lapses and every one forgets it.A year or two later it crops up in a new form, and, to yourastonishment, you find that Thorndyke has got it all cut and dried. Hehas been ruminating on it periodically in the interval.'

'You notice,' said Thorndyke, 'that my learned friend is pleased toindulge in mixed metaphors. But his statement is substantially true,though obscurely worded. You must tell us more about the Bellinghamswhen we have fortified you with a cup of tea.'

Our talk had brought us to Thorndyke's chambers, which were on thefirst floor of No. 5A, King's Bench Walk, and as we entered the fine,spacious, panelled room we found a small, elderly man, neatly dressedin black, setting out the tea-service on the table. I glanced at himwith some curiosity. He hardly looked like a servant, in spite of hisneat, black clothes: in fact, his appearance was rather puzzling, forwhile his quiet dignity and his serious, intelligent face suggestedsome kind of professional man, his neat, capable hands were those of askilled mechanic.

Thorndyke surveyed the tea-tray thoughtfully and then looked at hisretainer. 'I see you have put three tea-cups, Polton,' he said. 'Now,how did you know I was bringing some one in to tea?'

The little man smiled a quaint, crinkly smile of gratification as heexplained:

'I happened to look out of the laboratory window as you turned thecorner, sir.'

'Simplicity is the soul of efficiency, sir,' replied Polton as hechecked the tea-service to make sure that nothing was forgotten, andwith this remarkable aphorism he silently evaporated.

'To return to the Bellingham case,' said Thorndyke, when he had pouredout the tea. 'Have you picked up any facts relating to the parties--and facts, I mean, of course, that it would be proper for you tomention?'

'I have learned one or two things that there is no harm in repeating.For instance, I gather that Godfrey Bellingham--my patient--lost allhis property quite suddenly about the time of the disappearance.'

'That is really odd,' said Thorndyke. 'The opposite condition would bequite understandable, but one doesn't see exactly how this can havehappened, unless there was an allowance of some sort.'

'No, that was what struck me. But there seem to be some queer featuresin the case, and the legal position is evidently getting complicated.There is a will, for example, which is giving trouble.'

'They will be hardly able to administer the will without either proofor presumption of death,' Thorndyke remarked.

'Exactly. That's one of the difficulties. Another is that there seemsto be some fatal drafting of the will itself. I don't know what it is,but I expect I shall hear sooner or later. By the way, I mentioned theinterest that you have taken in the case, and I think Bellingham wouldhave liked to consult you, but, of course, the poor devil has nomoney.'

'That is awkward for him if the other interested parties have, Therewill probably be legal proceedings of some kind, and as the law takesno account of poverty, he is likely to go to the wall. He ought tohave advice of some sort.'

'I don't see how he is to get it,' said I.

'Neither do I,' Thorndyke admitted. 'There are no hospitals forimpecunious litigants; it is assumed that only persons of means have aright to go to law. Of course, if we knew the man and thecircumstances we might be able to help him; but for all we know to thecontrary, he may be an arrant scoundrel.'

I had recalled the strange conversation that I had overheard, andwondered what Thorndyke would have thought of it if it had beenallowable for me to repeat it. Obviously it was not, however, and Icould only give my own impressions.

'He doesn't strike me as that,' I said; 'but, of course, one neverknows. Personally, he impressed me rather favourably, which is morethan the other man did.'

'What other man?' asked Thorndyke.

'There was another man in the case, wasn't there? I forget his name. Isaw him at the house and didn't much like the look of him. I suspecthe's putting some sort of pressure on Bellingham.'

'Berkeley knows more about this than he's telling us,' said Jervis.'Let us look up the report and see who this stranger is.' He took downfrom a shelf a large volume of newspaper cuttings and laid it on thetable.

'You see,' said he, as he ran his finger down the index. 'Thorndykefiles all the cases that are likely to come to something, and I knowhe had expectations regarding this one. I fancy he had some ghoulishhope that the missing gentleman's head might turn up in somebody'sdust-bin. Here we are; the other man's name is Hurst. He is apparentlya cousin, and it was at his house the missing man was last seenalive.'

'So you think Mr. Hurst is moving in the matter?' said Thorndyke, whenhe had glanced over the report.

'Well,' said Thorndyke, 'if you should learn what is being done andshould have permission to speak of it, I shall be very interested tohear how the case progresses; and if an unofficial opinion on anypoint would be of service, I think there would be no harm in givingit.'

'It would certainly be of great value if the other parties are takingprofessional advice,' I said; and then, after a pause, I asked: 'Haveyou given this case much consideration?'

Thorndyke reflected. 'No,' he said, 'I can't say that I have. I turnedit over rather carefully when the report first appeared, and I havespeculated on it occasionally since. It is my habit, as Jervis wastelling you, to utilise odd moments of leisure (such as a railwayjourney, for instance) by constructing theories to account for thefacts of such obscure cases as have come to my notice. It is a usefulhabit, I think, for, apart from the mental exercise and experiencethat one gains from it, an appreciable portion of these casesultimately comes into my hands, and then the previous consideration ofthem is so much time gained.'

'Have you formed any theory to account for the facts in this case?' Iasked.

'Yes; I have several theories, one of which I especially favour, and Iam awaiting with great interest such new facts as may indicate to mewhich of these theories is probably the correct one.'

'It's no use your trying to pump him, Berkeley,' said Jervis. 'He isfitted with an information valve that opens inwards. You can pour inas much as you like, but you can't get any out.'

Thorndyke chuckled. 'My learned friend is, in the main, correct,' hesaid. 'You see, I may be called upon any day to advise on this case,in which event I should feel remarkably foolish if I had alreadyexpounded my views in detail. But I should like to hear what you andJervis make of the case as reported in the newspapers.'

'As far as my brain is concerned,' I said, 'the process of suctionisn't likely to yield much except vacuum, so I will resign in favourof you. You are a full-blown lawyer, whereas I am only a simple GP.'

Jervis filled his pipe with deliberate care and lighted it. Then,blowing a slender stream of smoke into the air, he said:

'If you want to know what I make of the case from that report, I cantell you in one word--nothing. Every road seems to end in a cul-de-sac.'

'Oh, come!' said Thorndyke, 'this is mere laziness. Berkeley wants towitness a display of your forensic wisdom. A learned counsel may be ina fog--he very often is--but he doesn't state the fact baldly; hewraps it up in a decent verbal disguise. Tell us how you arrive atyour conclusion. Show us that you have really weighed the facts.'

'Very well,' said Jervis, 'I will give you a masterly analysis of thecase--leading to nothing.' He continued to puff at his pipe for a timewith slight embarrassment, as I thought--and I fully sympathised withhim. Finally he blew a little cloud and commenced:

'The position appears to be this: Here is a man seen to enter acertain house, who is shown into a certain room, and shut in. He isnot seen to come out, and yet, when the room is next entered, it isfound to be empty; and that man is never seen again, alive or dead.That is a pretty tough beginning.

'Now, it is evident that one of three things must have happened.Either he must have remained in that room, or at least in that house,alive; or he must have died, naturally or otherwise, and his body havebeen concealed; or he must have left the house unobserved. Let us takethe first case. Now, he couldn't have remained alive in the house fortwo years. This affair happened nearly two years ago. He would havebeen noticed. The servants, for instance, when cleaning out the rooms,would have observed him.'

Here Thorndyke interposed with an indulgent smile at his junior: 'Mylearned friend is treating the inquiry with unbecoming levity. Weaccept the conclusion that the man did not remain in the house alive.'

'Very well. Then did he remain in it dead? Apparently not. The reportsays that as soon as the man was missed, Hurst and the servantstogether searched the house thoroughly. But there had been no time oropportunity to dispose of the body, whence the only possibleconclusion is that the body was not there. Moreover, if we admit thepossibility of his having been murdered--for that is what concealmentof the body would imply--there is the question: Who could havemurdered him? Not the servants, obviously, and as to Hurst--well, ofcourse, we don't know what his relations with the missing man may havebeen--at least, I don't.'--

'Neither do I,' said Thorndyke. 'I know nothing beyond what is in thenewspaper report and what Berkeley has told us.'

'Then we know nothing. He may have had a motive for murdering the manor he may not. The point is that he doesn't seem to have had theopportunity. Even if we suppose that he managed to conceal the bodytemporarily, still there was the final disposal of it. He couldn'thave buried it in the garden with the servants about; neither could hehave burned it. The only conceivable method by which he could have gotrid of it would have been that of cutting it up into fragments andburying the dismembered parts in some secluded spots or dropping theminto ponds or rivers. But no remains of the kind have been found, assome of them probably would have been by now, so that there is nothingto support this suggestion; indeed, the idea of murder, in this houseat least, seems to be excluded by the search that was made the instantthe man was missed.

'Then to take the third alternative: Did he leave the houseunobserved? Well, it is not impossible, but it would be a queer thingto do. He may have been an impulsive or eccentric man. We can't say.We know nothing about him. But two years have clasped and he has neverturned up, so that if he left the house secretly he must have goneinto hiding and be hiding still. Of course, he may have been the sortof lunatic who would behave in that manner or he may not. We have noinformation as to his personal character.

'Then there is the complication of the scarab that was picked up inthe grounds of his brother's house at Woodford. That seems to showthat he visited that house at some time. But no one admits having seenhim there; and it is uncertain, therefore, whether he went first tohis brother's house or to Hurst's. If he was wearing the scarab whenhe arrived at the Eltham house, he must have left that houseunobserved and gone to Woodford; but if he was not wearing it heprobably went from Woodford to Eltham, and there finally disappeared.As to whether he was or was not wearing the scarab when he was lastseen alive by Hurst's housemaid, there is at present no evidence.

'If he went to his brother's house after his visit to Hurst, thedisappearance is more understandable if we don't mind flingingaccusations of murder about rather casually; for the disposal of thebody would be much less difficult in that case. Apparently no one sawhim enter the house, and, if he did enter, it was by a back gate whichcommunicated with the library--a separate building some distance fromthe house. In that case it would have been physically possible for theBellinghams to have made away with him. There was plenty of time todispose of the body unobserved--temporarily, at any rate. Nobody hadseen him come to the house, and nobody knew that he was there--if hewas there; and apparently no search was made either at the time orafterwards. In fact, if it could be shown that the missing man leftHurst's house alive, or that he was wearing the scarab when he arrivedthere, things would look rather fishy for the Bellinghams--for, ofcourse, the girl must have been in it if the father was. But there'sthe crux: there is no proof that the man ever did leave Hurst's housealive. And if he didn't--but there! as I said at first, whicheverturning you take, you find that it ends in a blind alley.'--

'A lame ending to a masterly exposition,' was Thorndyke's comment.

'I know,' said Jervis. 'But what would you have? There are quite anumber of possible solutions, and one of them must be the true one.But how are we to judge which it is? I maintain that until we knowsomething of the parties and the financial and other interestsinvolved we have no data.'

'There,' said Thorndyke, 'I disagree with you entirely. I maintainthat we have ample data. You say that we have no means of judgingwhich of the various possible solutions is the true one; but I thinkthat if you read the report carefully and thoughtfully you will findthat the facts now known point clearly to one explanation, and oneonly. It may not be the true explanation, and I don't suppose it is.But we are now dealing with the matter speculatively, academically,and I contend that our data yield a definite conclusion. What do yousay, Berkeley?'

'I say that it is time for me to be off; the evening consultationsbegin at half-past six.'

'Well,' said Thorndyke, 'don't let us keep you from your duties, withpoor Barnard currant-picking in the Grecian Isles. But come in and seeus again. Drop in when you like after your work is done. You won't bein our way even if we are busy, which we very seldom are after eighto'clock.'

I thanked Dr. Thorndyke most heartily for making me free of hischambers in this hospitable fashion and took my leave, setting forthhomewards by way of Middle Temple Lane and the Embankment; not a verydirect route for Fetter Lane, it must be confessed; but our talk hadrevived my interest in the Bellingham household and put me in areflective vein.

From the remarkable conversation that I had overheard it was evidentthat the plot was thickening. Not that I supposed that these tworespectable gentlemen really suspected one another of having made awaywith the missing man; but still, their unguarded words, spoken inanger, made it clear that each had allowed the thought of sinisterpossibilities to enter his mind--a dangerous condition that mighteasily grow into actual suspicion. And then the circumstances reallywere highly mysterious, as I realised with especial vividness nowafter listening to my friend's analysis of the evidence.

From the problem itself my mind travelled, not for the first timeduring the last few days, to the handsome girl, who had seemed in myeyes the high-priestess of this temple of mystery in the quaint littlecourt. What a strange figure she had made against this strangebackground, with her quiet, chilly, self-contained manner, her paleface, so sad and worn, her black, straight brows and solemn grey eyes,so inscrutable, mysterious, Sibylline. A striking, even impressive,personality this, I reflected, with something in it sombre andenigmatic that attracted and yet repelled.

And here I recalled Jervis's words: 'The girl must have been in it ifthe father was.' It was a dreadful thought, even though onlyspeculatively uttered, and my heart rejected it; rejected it withindignation that rather surprised me. And this notwithstanding thatthe sombre black-robed figure that my memory conjured up was one thatassociated itself with the idea of mystery and tragedy.

CHAPTER IV. LEGAL COMPLICATIONS AND A JACKAL

MY MEDITATIONS brought me by a circuitous route, and ten minutes late,to the end of Fetter Lane, where, exchanging my rather abstracted airfor the alert manner of a busy practitioner, I strode briskly forwardand darted into the surgery with knitted brows, as though justreleased from an anxious case. But there was only one patient waiting,and she saluted me as I entered with a snort of defiance.

'Here you are, then?' said she.

'You are perfectly correct, Miss Oman,' I replied; 'in fact, you haveput the case in a nutshell. What can I have the pleasure of doing foryou?'

'Nothing,' was the answer. 'My medical adviser is a lady; but I'vebrought a note from Mr. Bellingham. Here it is,' and she thrust theenvelope into my hand.

I glanced through the note and learned that my patient had had acouple of bad nights and a very harassing day. 'Could I have somethingto give me a night's rest?' it concluded.

I reflected for a few moments. One is not very ready to prescribesleeping draughts for unknown patients, but still, insomnia is a verydistressing condition. In the end I temporised with a moderate dose ofbromide, deciding to call and see if more energetic measures werenecessary.

'He had better take a dose of this at once, Miss Oman,' said I, as Ihanded her the bottle, 'and I will look in later and see how he is.'

'I expect he will be glad to see you,' she answered, 'for he is allalone to-night and very dumpy. Miss Bellingham is out. But I mustremind you that he's a poor man and pays his way. You must excuse mymentioning it.'

'I am much obliged to you for the hint, Miss Oman,' I rejoined. 'Itisn't necessary for me to see him, but I should like just to look inand have a chat.'

'Yes, it will do him good. You have your points, though punctualitydoesn't seem to be one of them,' and with this parting shot Miss Omanbustled away.

Half-past eight found me ascending the great, dim staircase the housein Nevill's Court preceded by Miss Oman, by whom I was ushered intothe room. Mr. Bellingham, who had just finished some sort of meal, wassitting hunched up in his chair gazing gloomily into the empty grate.He brightened up as I entered, but was evidently in very low spirits.

'I didn't mean to drag you out after your day's work was finished,' hesaid, 'though I am very glad to see you.'

'You haven't dragged me out. I heard you were alone, so I just droppedin for a few minutes' gossip.'

'That is really kind of you,' he said heartily. 'But I'm afraid you'llfind me rather poor company. A man who is full of his own highlydisagreeable affairs is not a desirable companion.'

'You mustn't let me disturb you if you'd rather be alone,' said I,with a sudden fear that I was intruding.

'Oh, you won't disturb me,' he replied; adding, with a laugh: 'It'smore likely to be the other way about. In fact, if I were not afraidof boring you to death I would ask you to let me talk my difficultiesover with you.'

'You won't bore me,' I said. 'It is generally interesting to shareanother man's experiences without their inconveniences. "The properstudy of mankind is--man," you know, especially to a doctor.'

Mr. Bellingham chuckled grimly. 'You make me feel like a microbe,' hesaid. 'However, if you would care to take a peep at me through yourmicroscope, I will crawl on to the stage for your inspection, thoughit is not my actions that furnish the materials for your psychologicalstudies. It is my poor brother who is the Deus ex machina, who, fromhis unknown grave, as I fear, pulls the strings of this infernalpuppet-show.'

He paused and for a space gazed thoughtfully into the grate as if hehad forgotten my presence. At length he looked up and resumed:

'It is a curious story, Doctor--a very curious story. Part of it youknow--the middle part. I will tell you it from the beginning, and thenyou will know as much as I do; for, as to the end, that is known to noone. It is written, no doubt, in the book of destiny, but the page hasyet to be turned.

'The mischief began with my father's death. He was a country clergymanof very moderate means, a widower with two children, my brother Johnand me. He managed to send us both to Oxford, after which John wentinto the Foreign Office and I was to have gone into the Church. But Isuddenly discovered that my views on religion had undergone a changethat made this impossible, and just about this time my father cameinto a quite considerable property. Now, as it was his expressedintention to leave the estate equally divided between my brother andme, there was no need for me to take up any profession for alivelihood. Archaeology was already the passion of my life, and Idetermined to devote myself henceforth to my favourite study, inwhich, by the way, I was following a family tendency; for my fatherwas an enthusiastic student of ancient Oriental history, and John was,as you know, an ardent Egyptologist.

'Then my father died quite suddenly, and left no will. He had intendedto have one drawn up, but had put it off until it was too late. Andsince nearly all the property was in the form of real estate, mybrother inherited practically the whole of it. However, in deferenceto the known wishes of my father, he made me an allowance of fivehundred a year, which was about a quarter of the annual income. Iurged him to assign me a lump sum, but he refused to do this. Instead,he instructed his solicitor to pay me an allowance in quarterlyinstalments during the rest of his life; and it was understood that,on his death, the entire estate should devolve on me, or if I diedfirst, on my daughter, Ruth. Then, as you know, he disappearedsuddenly, and as the circumstances suggested that he was dead, andthere was no evidence that he was alive, his solicitor--a Mr.Jellicoe--found himself unable to continue the payment of theallowance. On the other hand, as there was no positive evidence thatmy brother was dead, it was impossible to administer the will.'

'You say the circumstances suggested that your brother was dead. Whatcircumstances were they?'

'Principally the suddenness and completeness of the disappearance. Hisluggage, as you may remember, was found lying unclaimed at the railwaystation; and there was another circumstance even more suggestive. Mybrother drew a pension from the Foreign Office, for which he had toapply in person, or, if abroad, produce proof that he was alive on thedate when the payment became due. Now, he was exceedingly regular inthis respect; in fact, he had never been known to fail, either toappear in person or to transmit the necessary documents to his agent,Mr. Jellicoe. But from the moment when he vanished so mysteriously tothe present day, nothing whatever has been heard of him.'

'It's a very awkward position for you,' I said, 'but I should thinkthere will not be much difficulty in obtaining the permission of theCourt to presume death and to proceed to prove the will.'

Mr. Bellingham made a wry face. 'I expect you are right,' he said,'but that doesn't help me much. You see, Mr. Jellicoe, having waited areasonable time for my brother to reappear, took a very unusual but, Ithink, in the special circumstances, a very proper step: he summonedme and the other interested party to his office and communicated to usthe provisions of the will. And very extraordinary provisions theyturned out to be. I was thunderstruck when I heard them. And theexasperating thing is that I feel sure my poor brother imagined thathe had made everything perfectly safe and simple.'

'They generally do,' I said, rather vaguely.

'I suppose they do,' said Mr. Bellingham; 'but poor John has made themost infernal hash of his will, and I am certain that he has utterlydefeated his own intentions. You see, we are an old London family. Thehouse in Queen Square where my brother nominally lived, but actuallykept his collection, has been occupied by us for generations, and mostof the Bellinghams are buried in St George's burial-ground close by,though some members of the family are buried in other churchyards inthe neighbourhood. Now, my brother--who, by the way, was a bachelor--had a strong feeling for the family traditions, and he stipulated, notunnaturally, in his will that he should be buried in St George'sburial-ground among his ancestors, or, at least, in one of the placesof burial appertaining to his native parish. But instead of simplyexpressing the wish and directing his executors to carry it out, hemade it a condition affecting the operation of the will.'

'Affecting it in what respect?' I asked.

'In a very vital respect,' answered Mr. Bellingham. 'The bulk of theproperty he bequeathed to me, or if I predeceased him, to my daughterRuth. But the bequest was subject to the condition I have mentioned--that he should be buried in a certain place--and if that condition wasnot fulfilled, the bulk of the property was to go to my cousin, GeorgeHurst.'

'But in that case,' said I, 'as you can't produce the body, neither ofyou can get the property.'

'I am not so sure of that,' he replied. 'If my brother is dead, it ispretty certain that he is not buried in St George's or any of theother places mentioned, and the fact can easily be proved by;production of the registers. So that a permission to presume deathwould result in the handing over to Hurst of almost the entireestate.'

'Who is the executor?' I asked.

'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'there is another muddle. There are two executors;Jellicoe is one, and the other is the principal beneficiary--Hurst ormyself, as the case may be. But, you see, neither of us can become anexecutor until the Court has decided which of us is the principalbeneficiary.'

'But who is to apply to the Court? I thought that was the business ofthe executors.'

'Exactly, that is Hurst's difficulty. We were discussing it when youcalled the other day, and a very animated discussion it was,' he '.added, with a grim smile. 'You see, Jellicoe naturally refuses to movein the matter alone. He says he must have the support of the otherexecutor. But Hurst is not at present the other executor; neither amI. But the two of us together are the co-executor, since the dutydevolves upon one or other of us, in any case.'

'It's a complicated position,' I said.

'It is; and the complication has elicited a very curious proposal fromHurst. He points out--quite correctly, I am afraid--that as theconditions as to burial have not been complied with, the property mustcome to him, and he proposes a very neat little arrangement, which isthis: That I shall support him and Jellicoe in their application forpermission to presume death and to administer the will, and that heshall pay me four hundred a year for life; the arrangement to holdgood in all eventualities.'

'What does he mean by that?'

'He means,' said Bellingham, fixing me with a ferocious scowl, 'thatif the body should turn up at any future time, so that the conditionsas to burial should be able to be carried out, he should still retainthe property and pay me the four hundred a year.'--

'The deuce!' said I. 'He seems to know how to drive a bargain.'

'His position is that he stands to lose four hundred a year for theterm of my life if the body is never found, and he ought to stand towin if it is.'

'And I gather that you have refused this offer?'

'Yes; very emphatically, and my daughter agrees with me; but I am notsure that I have done the right thing. A man should think twice, Isuppose, before he burns his boats.'

'Have you spoken to Mr. Jellicoe about the matter?'

'Yes, I have been to see him to-day. He is a cautious man, and hedoesn't advise me one way or the other. But I think he disapproves ofmy refusal; in fact, he remarked that a bird in the hand is worth twoin the bush, especially when the whereabouts of the bush is unknown.'

'Do you think he will apply to the Court without your sanction?'

'He doesn't want to; but I suppose, if Hurst puts pressure on him, hewill have to. Besides, Hurst, as an interested party, could apply onhis own account, and after my refusal he probably will; at least, thatis Jellicoe's opinion.'

'The whole thing is a most astonishing muddle,' I said, 'especiallywhen one remembers that your brother had a lawyer to advise him.Didn't Mr. Jellicoe point out to him how absurd the provisions were?'

'Yes, he did. He tells me that he implored my brother to let him drawup a will embodying the matter in a reasonable form. But John wouldn'tlisten to him. Poor old fellow! he could be very pigheaded when hechose.'

'And is Hurst's proposal still open?'

'No, thanks to my peppery temper. I refused it very definitely, andsent him off with a flea in his ear. I hope I have not made a falsestep; I was quite taken by surprise when Hurst made the proposal andgot rather angry. You remember, my brother was last seen alive atHurst's house--but there, I oughtn't to talk like that, and I oughtn'tto pester you with my confounded affairs when you come in for afriendly chat, though I gave you fair warning, you remember.'

'Oh, but you have been highly entertaining. You don't realise what aninterest I take in your case.'

Mr. Bellingham laughed somewhat grimly. 'My case!' he repeated. 'Youspeak as if I were some rare and curious sort of criminal lunatic.However, I'm glad you find me amusing. It's more than I find myself.'

'I didn't say amusing; I said interesting. I view you with deeprespect as the central figure of a stirring drama. And I am not theonly person who regards you in that light. Do you remember my speakingto you of Doctor Thorndyke?'

'Yes, of course I do.'

'Well, oddly enough, I met him this afternoon and we had a long talkat his chambers. I took the liberty of mentioning that I had made youracquaintance. Did I do wrong?'

'Perfectly, in all its details. He is quite an enthusiast, you know,and uncommonly keen to hear how the case develops.'

'So am I, for that matter,' said Mr. Bellingham.

'I wonder,' said I, 'if you would mind my telling him what you havetold me to-night? It would interest him enormously.'

Mr. Bellingham reflected for a while with his eyes fixed on the emptygrate. Presently he looked up, and said slowly:

'I don't know why I should. It's no secret; and if it were, I hold nomonopoly on it. No; tell him, if you think he'd care to hear aboutit.'

'You needn't be afraid of his talking,' I said. 'He's as close as anoyster; and the facts may mean more to him than they do to us. He maybe able to give a useful hint or two.'

'Oh, I'm not going to pick his brains,' Mr. Bellingham said quicklyand with some wrath. 'I'm not the sort of man who goes round cadgingfor free professional advice. Understand that, Doctor?'

'I do,' I answered hastily. 'That wasn't what I meant at all. Is thatMiss Bellingham coming in? I heard the front door shut.'

'Yes, that will be my girl, I expect; but don't run away. You're notafraid of her, are you?' he added as I hurriedly picked up my hat.

'I'm not sure that I'm not,' I answered. 'She is rather a majesticyoung lady.'

Mr. Bellingham chuckled and smothered a yawn, and at that moment hisdaughter entered the room; and, in spite of her shabby black dress anda shabbier handbag that she carried, I thought her appearance andmanner fully justified my description.

'Very well, investigator or investigatrix, if you like. She hunts upreferences and bibliographies at the Museum for people who are writingbooks. She looks up everything that has been written on a givensubject, and then, when she has crammed herself to a bursting-pointwith facts, she goes to her client and disgorges and crams him or her,and he or she finally disgorges into the Press.'

'What a disgusting way to put it!' said his daughter. 'However, thatis what it amounts to. I am a literary jackal, a collector ofprovender for the literary lions. Is that quite clear?'

'Oh, it was not the Shepherd Kings who were to be stuffed. It was theauthor! That was mere obscurity of speech on the part of my father.The position is this: A venerable Archdeacon wrote an article on thepatriarch Joseph--'

'And didn't know anything about him,' interrupted Mr. Bellingham, 'andgot tripped up by a specialist who did, and then got shirty--'

'Nothing of the kind,' said Miss Bellingham. 'He knew as much asvenerable archdeacons ought to know; but the expert knew more. So thearchdeacon commissioned me to collect the literature on the state ofEgypt at the end of the seventeenth dynasty, which I have done; andto-morrow I shall go and stuff him, as my father expresses it, andthen--'

'And then,' Mr. Bellingham interrupted, 'the archdeacon will rushforth and pelt that expert with Shepherd Kings and Sequenen-Ra and thewhole tag-rag and bobtail of the seventeenth dynasty. Oh, there'll bewigs on the green, I can tell you.'

'Yes, I expect there will be quite a skirmish,' said Miss Bellingham.And thus dismissing the subject she made an energetic attack on thetoast while her father refreshed himself with a colossal yawn.

I watched her with furtive admiration and deep and growing interest.In spite of her pallor, her weary eyes, and her drawn and almosthaggard face, she was an exceedingly handsome girl; and there was inher aspect a suggestion of purpose, of strength and character thatmarked her off from the rank and file of womanhood. I noted this as Istole an occasional glance at her or turned to answer some remarkaddressed to me; and I noted, too, that her speech, despite a generalundertone of depression, was yet not without a certain caustic,ironical humour. She was certainly a rather enigmatical young person,but very decidedly interesting.

When she had finished her repast she put aside the tray and, openingthe shabby handbag, asked:

'Do you take any interest in Egyptian history? We are as mad ashatters on the subject. It seems to be a family complaint.'

'I don't know much about it,' I answered. 'Medical studies are ratherengrossing and don't leave much time for general reading.'

'Naturally,' she said. 'You can't specialise in everything. But if youwould care to see how the business of a literary jackal is conducted,I will show you my notes.'

I accepted the offer eagerly (not, I fear, from pure enthusiasm forthe subject), and she brought forth from the bag four blue-covered,quarto notebooks, each dealing with one of the four dynasties from thefourteenth to the seventeenth. As I glanced through the neat andorderly extracts with which they were filled we discussed theintricacies of the peculiarly difficult and confused period that theycovered, gradually lowering our voices as Mr. Bellingham's eyes closedand his head fell against the back of his chair. We had just reachedthe critical reign of Apepa II when a resounding snore broke in uponthe studious quiet of the room and sent us both into a fit of silentlaughter.

'Your conversation has done its work,' she whispered as I stealthilypicked up my hat, and together we stole on tiptoe to the door, whichshe opened without a sound. Once outside, she suddenly dropped herbantering manner and said quite earnestly:

'How kind it was of you to come and see him to-night! You have donehim a world of good, and I am most grateful. Good-night!'

She shook hands with me really cordially, and I took my way down thecreaking stairs in a whirl of happiness that I was quite at a loss toaccount for.

CHAPTER V. THE WATERCRESS-BED

BARNARD'S PRACTICE, like most others, was subject to thosefluctuations that fill the struggling practitioner alternately withhope and despair. The work came in paroxysms with intervals of almostcomplete stagnation. One of these intermissions occurred on the dayafter my visit to Nevill's Court, with the result that by half-pasteleven I found myself wondering what I should do with the remainder ofthe day. The better to consider this weighty problem, I strolled downto the Embankment, and, leaning on the parapet, contemplated the viewacross the river; the grey stone bridge with its perspective ofarches, the picturesque pile of the shot-towers, and beyond, theshadowy shapes of the Abbey and St Stephen's.

It was a pleasant scene, restful and quiet, with a touch of life and ahint of sober romance, when a barge swept down through the--middlearch of the bridge with a lugsail hoisted to a jury mast and a white-aproned woman at the tiller. Dreamily I watched the craft creep byupon the moving tide, noted the low freeboard, almost awash, thecareful helmswoman, and the dog on the forecastle yapping at thedistant shore--and thought of Ruth Bellingham.

What was there about this strange girl that had made so deep animpression on me? That was the question that I propounded to myself,and not for the first time. Of the fact itself there was no doubt. Butwhat was the explanation? Was it her unusual surroundings? Heroccupation and rather recondite learning? Her striking personality andexceptional good looks? Or her connection with the dramatic mystery ofher lost uncle?

I concluded that it was all of these. Everything connected with herwas unusual and arresting; but over and above these circumstancesthere was a certain sympathy and personal affinity of which I wasstrongly conscious and of which I dimly hoped that she, perhaps, was alittle conscious too. At any rate, I was deeply interested in her; ofthat there was no doubt whatever. Short as our acquaintance had been,she held a place in my thoughts that had never been held by any otherwoman.

From Ruth Bellingham my reflections passed by a natural transition tothe curious story that her father had told me. It was a queer affair,that ill-drawn will, with the baffled lawyer protesting in thebackground. It almost seemed as if there must be something behind itall, especially when I remembered Mr. Hurst's very singular proposal.But it was out of my depth; it was a case for a lawyer, and to alawyer it should go. This very night, I resolved, I would go toThorndyke and give him the whole story as it had been told to me.

And then there happened one of those coincidences at which we allwonder when they occur, but which are so frequent as to have becomeenshrined in a proverb. For even as I formed the resolution, Iobserved two men approaching from the direction of Blackfriars, andrecognised in them my quondam teacher and his junior.

'I was just thinking about you,' I said as they came up.

'Very flattering,' replied Jervis; 'but I thought you had to talk ofthe devil.'

'Perhaps,' suggested Thorndyke, 'he was talking to himself. But whywere you thinking of us, and what was the nature of your thoughts?'

'My thoughts had reference to the Bellingham case. I spent the wholeof last evening at Nevill's Court.'

'Ha! And are there any fresh developments?'

'Yes, by Jove! there are. Bellingham gave me a full detaileddescription of the will; and a pretty document it seems to be.'

'Did he give you permission to repeat the details to me?'

'Yes. I asked specifically if I might, and he had no objectionwhatever.'

'Good. We are lunching at Soho to-day as Polton has his hands full.Come with us and share our table and tell us your story as we go. Willthat suit you?'

It suited me admirably in the present state of the practice, and Iaccepted the invitation with undissembled glee.

'Very well,' said Thorndyke; 'then let us walk slowly and finish withmatters confidential before we plunge into the madding crowd.'

We set forth at a leisurely pace along the broad pavement and Icommenced my narration. As well as I could remember, I related thecircumstances that had led up to the present disposition of theproperty and then proceeded to the actual provisions of the will; toall of which my two friends listened with rapt interest, Thorndykeoccasionally stopping me to jot down a memorandum in his pocket-book.

'Why, the fellow must have been a stark lunatic!' Jervis exclaimed,when I had finished. 'He seems to have laid himself out with the mostdevilish ingenuity to defeat his own ends.'

'That is not an uncommon peculiarity with testators,' Thorndykeremarked. 'A direct and perfectly intelligible will is rather theexception. But we can hardly judge until we have seen the actualdocument. I suppose Bellingham hasn't a copy?'

'I don't know,' said I; 'but I will ask him.'

'If he has one, I should like to look through it,' said Thorndyke.'The provisions are very peculiar, and, as Jervis says, admirablycalculated to defeat the testator's wishes if they have been correctlyreported. And, apart from that, they have a remarkable bearing on thecircumstances of the disappearance. I daresay you noticed that.'

'I noticed that it is very much to Hurst's advantage that the body hasnot been found.'

'Yes, of course. But there are some other points that are verysignificant. However, it would be premature to discuss the terms ofthe will until we have seen the actual document or a certified copy.'

'If there is a copy extant,' I said, 'I will try to get hold of it.But Bellingham is terribly afraid of being suspected of a desire toget professional advice gratis.'

'That,' said Thorndyke, 'is natural enough, and not discreditable. Butyou must overcome his scruples somehow. I expect you will be able to.You are a plausible young gentleman, as I remember of old, and youseem to have established yourself as quite the friend of the family.'

'They are rather interesting people,' I explained; 'very cultivatedand with a strong leaning towards archaeology. It seems to be in theblood.'

'Yes,' said Thorndyke; 'a family tendency, probably due to contact andcommon surroundings rather than heredity. So you like GodfreyBellingham?'

'Yes. He is a trifle peppery and impulsive, but quite an agreeable,genial old butler.'

'And the daughter,' said Jervis, 'what is she like?'

'Oh, she is a learned lady; works up bibliographies and references atthe Museum.'

'Ah!' Jervis exclaimed with disfavour, 'I know the breed. Inkyfingers; no chest to speak of; all side and spectacles.'

'You're quite wrong,' I exclaimed indignantly, contrasting Jervis'shideous presentment with the comely original. 'She is an exceedinglygood-looking girl, and her manners all that a lady's should be. Alittle stiff, perhaps, but then I am only an acquaintance--almost astranger.'

'She is about five feet seven, slim but rather plump, very erect incarriage and graceful in movements; black hair, loosely parted in themiddle and falling very prettily away from the forehead; pale, clearcomplexion, dark grey eyes, straight eyebrows, straight, well-shapednose, short mouth, rather full; round chin--what the deuce are yougrinning at, Jervis?' For my friend had suddenly unmasked hisbatteries and now threatened, like the Cheshire cat, to dissolve intoa mere abstraction of amusement.

'If there is a copy of that will, Thorndyke,' he said, 'we shall getit. I think you agree with me, reverend senior?'

'I have already said,' was the reply, 'that I put my trust inBerkeley. And now let us dismiss professional topics. This is ourhostelry.'

He pushed open an unpretentious glazed door, and we followed him intothe restaurant, whereof the atmosphere was pervaded by an appetisingmealiness mingled with less agreeable suggestions of the destructivedistillation of fat.

It was some two hours later when I wished my friends adieu under thegolden-leaved plane trees of King's Bench Walk.

'I won't ask you to come in now,' said Thorndyke, 'as we have someconsultations this afternoon. But come in and see us soon; don't waitfor that copy of the will.'

'No,' said Jervis. 'Drop in in the evening when your work is done;unless, of course, there is more attractive society elsewhere. Oh, youneedn't turn that colour, my dear child; we have all been young once;there is even a tradition that Thorndyke was young some time back inthe pre-dynastic period.'

'Don't take any notice of him, Berkeley,' said Thorndyke. 'The egg-shell is sticking to his head still. He'll know better when he is myage.'

'Methuselah!' exclaimed Jervis; 'I hope I shan't have to wait as longas that!'

From the Temple I wended northward, to the adjacent College ofSurgeons, where I spent a couple of profitable hours examining the'pickles' and refreshing my memory on the subjects of pathology andanatomy; marvelling afresh (as every practical anatomist must marvel)at the incredibly perfect technique of the dissections, and inwardlypaying tribute to the founder of the collection. At length the warningof the clock, combined with an increasing craving for tea, drove meforth and bore me towards the scene of my not very strenuous labours.My mind was still occupied with the contents of the cases and thegreat glass jars, so that I found myself at the corner of Fetter Lanewithout a very clear idea of how I had got there. But at that point Iwas aroused from my reflections rather abruptly by a raucous voice inmy ear.

'Orrible discovery at Sidcup!'

I turned wrathfully--for a London street-boy's yell, let off at point-blank range, is, in effect, like the smack of an open hand--but theinscription on the staring yellow poster that was held up for myinspection changed my anger to curiosity.

'Horrible discovery in a watercress-bed!'

Now, let prigs deny it if they will, but there is something veryattractive in a 'horrible discovery'. It hints at tragedy, at mystery,at romance. It promises to bring into our grey and commonplace lifethat element of the dramatic which is the salt that our existence issavoured withal. 'In a watercress-bed,' too! The rusticity of thebackground seemed to emphasise the horror of the discovery, whateverit might be.

I bought a copy of the paper, and, tucking it under my arm, hurried onto the surgery, promising myself a mental feast of watercress; but asI opened the door I found myself confronted by a corpulent woman ofpiebald and pimply aspect who saluted me with a deep groan. It was thelady from the coal shop in Fleur-de-Lys Court.

'Yes, I have,' she answered, rising and following me gloomily into theconsulting-room; and then, when I had seated her in the patient'schair and myself at the writing table, she continued: 'It's my inside,you know, doctor.'

The statement lacked anatomical precision and merely excluded thedomain of the skin specialist. I accordingly waited for enlightenmentand speculated on the watercress-beds, while Mrs. Jablett regarded meexpectantly with a dim and watery eye.

'Ah!' I said at length; 'it's your--your inside, is it, Mrs. Jablett?'

'Yus. And my 'ead,' she added, with a voluminous sigh that filled theapartment with odorous reminiscences of 'unsweetened'.

'Your head aches, does it?'

'Something chronic!' said Mrs. Jablett. 'Feels as if it was a-openingand a-shutting, a-opening and a-shutting, and when I sit down I feelas if I should bust.'

This picturesque description of her sensations--not whollyinconsistent with her figure--gave the clue to Mrs. Jablett'ssufferings. Resisting a frivolous impulse to reassure her as to theelasticity of the human integument, I considered her case inexhaustive detail, coasting delicately round the subject of'unsweetened' and finally sent her away, revived in spirits andgrasping a bottle of Mist. Sodae cum Bismutho from Barnard's bigstock-jar. Then I went back to investigate the Horrible Discovery; butbefore I could open the paper, another patient arrived (Impetigocontagiosa, this time, affecting the 'wide and arched-front sublime'of a juvenile Fetter Laner), and then yet another, and so on throughthe evening, until at last I forgot the watercress-beds altogether. Itwas only when I had purified myself from the evening consultationswith hot water and a nail-brush and was about to sit down to a frugalsupper, that I remembered the newspaper and fetched it from the drawerof the consulting-room table, where it had been hastily thrust out ofsight. I folded it into a convenient form, and, standing it uprightagainst the water-jug, read the report at my ease as I supped.

There was plenty of it. Evidently the reporter had regarded it as a'scoop', and the editor had backed him up with ample space and hair-raising head-lines.

'HORRIBLE DISCOVERY

IN A WATERCRESS-BED

AT SIDCUP!'

'A startling discovery was made yesterday afternoon in the course ofclearing out a watercress-bed near the erstwhile rural village ofSidcup in Kent; a discovery that will occasion many a disagreeablequalm to those persons who have been in the habit of regalingthemselves with this refreshing esculent. But before proceeding to adescription of the circumstances of the actual discovery or of theobjects found--which, however, it may be stated at once, are nothingmore or less than the fragments of a dismembered human body--it willbe interesting to trace the remarkable chain of coincidences by virtueof which the discovery was made.

'The beds in question have been laid out in a small artificial lakefed by a tiny streamlet which forms one of the numerous tributaries ofthe River Cray. Its depth is greater than usual in the watercress-beds, otherwise the gruesome relics could never have been concealedbeneath its surface, and the flow of water through it, thoughcontinuous, is slow. The tributary streamlet meanders through asuccession of pasture meadows, in one of which the beds themselves aresituated, and here throughout most of the year the fleecy victims ofthe human carnivore carry on the industry of converting grass intomutton. Now it happened some years ago that the sheep frequentingthese pastures became affected with the disease known as "liver-rot";and here we must make a short digression into the domain of pathology.

'"Liver-rot" is a disease of quite romantic antecedents. Its cause isa small flat worm--the liver-fluke--which infests the liver and bile-ducts of the affected sheep.

'Now how does the worm get into the sheep's liver? That is where theromance comes in. Let us see.

'The cycle of transformations begins with the deposit of the eggs ofthe fluke in some shallow stream or ditch running through pasturelands. Now each egg has a sort of lid, which presently opens and letsout a minute, hairy creature who swims away in search of a particularkind of water-snail--the kind called by naturalists Limnosatruncatula. If he finds a snail, he bores his way into its flesh andsoon begins to grow and wax fat. Then he brings forth a family--oftiny worms quite unlike himself, little creatures called rediae, whichsoon give birth to families of young redice. So they go on for severalgenerations, but at last there comes a generation of redia which,instead of giving birth to fresh redia, produce families of totallydifferent offspring; big-headed, long-tailed creatures like miniaturetadpoles, called by the learned cercarice. The cercarice soon wriggletheir way out of the body of the snail, and then complications arise:for it is the habit of this particular snail to leave the wateroccasionally and take a stroll in the fields. Thus the cercarice,escaping from the snail, find themselves on the grass, whereupon theypromptly drop their tails and stick themselves to the grass-blades.Then comes the unsuspecting sheep to take his frugal meal, and,cropping the grass, swallows it, cercarice and all. But the latter,when they find themselves in the sheep's stomach, make their waystraight to the bile-ducts, up which they travel to the liver. Here,in a few weeks, they grow up into full-blown flukes and begin theimportant business of producing eggs.

'Such is the pathological romance of the "liver-rot"; and now what isits connection with this mysterious discovery? It is this. After theoutbreak of "liver-rot" above referred to, the ground landlord, a Mr.John Bellingham, instructed his solicitor to insert a clause in thelease of the beds directing that the latter should be periodicallycleared and examined by an expert to make sure that they were freefrom the noxious water-snails. The last lease expired about two yearsago, and since then the beds have been out of cultivation; but, forthe safety of the adjacent pastures, it was considered necessary tomake the customary periodical inspection, and it was in the course ofcleaning the beds for this purpose that r the present discovery wasmade.

'The operation began two days ago. A gang of three men proceededsystematically to grub up the plants and collect the multitudes ofwater-snails that they might be examined by the expert to see if anyobnoxious species were present. They had cleared nearly half of thebeds when, yesterday afternoon, one of the men working in the deepestpart came upon some bones, the appearance of which excited hissuspicion. Thereupon he called his mates, and they carefully pickedaway the plants piece-meal, a process that soon laid bare anunmistakable human hand lying on the mud amongst the roots.Fortunately they had the wisdom not to disturb the remains, but atonce sent off a message to the police. Very soon, an inspector and asergeant, accompanied by the divisional surgeon, arrived on the scene,and were able to view the remains lying as they had been found. Andnow another very strange fact came to light; for it was seen that thehand--a left one--lying on the mud was minus its third finger. This isregarded by the police as a very important fact as bearing on thequestion of identification, seeing that the number of persons havingthe third finger of the left hand missing must be quite small. After athorough examination on the spot, the bones were carefully collectedand conveyed to the mortuary, where they now lie awaiting furtherinquiries.

'The divisional surgeon, Dr. Brandon, in an interview with ourrepresentative, made the following statements:

'"The bones are those of the left arm of a middle-aged or elderly manabout five feet eight inches in height. All the bones of the arm arepresent, including the scapula, or shoulder-blade, and the clavicle,or collar-bone, but the three bones of the third finger are missing."

'"Is this a deformity or has the finger been cut off?" ourcorrespondent asked.

'"The finger has been amputated," was the reply. "If it had beenabsent from birth, the corresponding hand bone, or metacarpal, wouldhave been wanting or deformed, whereas it is present and quitenormal."

'"How long have the bones been in the water?" was the next question.

'"More than a year, I should say. They are quite clean; there is not avestige of the soft structures left."

'"Have you any theory as to how the arm came to be deposited where itwas found?"

'"I should rather not answer that question," was the guarded response.

'"One more question," our correspondent urged. "The ground landlord,Mr. John Bellingham; is he not the gentleman who disappeared somysteriously some time ago?"

'"So I understand," Dr. Brandon replied.

'"Can you tell me if Mr. Bellingham had lost the third finger of hisleft hand?"

'"I cannot say," said Dr. Brandon; and he added with a smile, "you hadbetter ask the police."

'That is how the matter stands at present. But we understand that thepolice are making active inquiries for any missing man who has lostthe third finger of his left hand, and if any of our readers know ofsuch a person, they are earnestly requested to communicate at once,either with us or with the authorities.

'Also we believe that a systematic search is to be made for furtherremains.'

I laid the newspaper down and fell into a train of reflection. It wascertainly a most mysterious affair. The thought that had evidentlycome to the reporter's mind stole naturally into mine. Could theseremains be those of John Bellingham? It was obviously possible, thoughI could not but see that the fact of the bones having been found onhis land, while it undoubtedly furnished the suggestion, did not inany way add to its probability. The connection was accidental and innowise relevant.

Then, too, there was the missing finger. No reference to any suchdeformity had been made in the original report of the disappearance,though it could hardly have been overlooked. I should be seeingThorndyke in the course of the next few days, and, undoubtedly, if thediscovery had any bearing upon the disappearance of John Bellingham, Ishould hear of it. With such a reflection I rose from the table, and,adopting the advice contained in the spurious Johnsonian quotation,proceeded to 'take a walk in Fleet Street' before settling down forthe evening.

CHAPTER VI. SIDELIGHTS

THE association of coal with potatoes is one upon which I havefrequently speculated, without arriving at any more satisfactoryexplanation than that both products are of the earth, earthy. Of theconnection itself Barnard's practice furnished several instancesbesides Mrs. Jablett's establishment in Fleur-de-Lys Court, one ofwhich was a dark and mysterious cavern a foot below the level of thestreet, that burrowed under an ancient house on the west side ofFetter Lane--a crinkly, timber house of the three-decker type thatleaned back drunkenly from the road as if about to sit down in its ownback yard.

Passing this repository of the associated products about ten o'clockin the morning, I perceived in the shadows of the cavern no less aperson than Miss Oman. She saw me at the same moment, and beckonedperemptorily with a hand that held a large Spanish onion. I approachedwith a deferential smile.

'What a magnificent onion, Miss Oman! and how generous of you to offerit to me--'

'I wasn't offering it to you. But there! Isn't it just like a man--'

'Isn't what just like a man?' I interrupted. 'If you mean the onion--'

'I don't!' she snapped; 'and I wish you wouldn't talk such a parcel ofnonsense. A grown man and a member of a serious profession, too! Youought to know better.'

'I suppose I ought,' I said reflectively. And she continued:

'I called in at the surgery just now.'--

'To see me?'--

'What else should I come for? Do you suppose that I called to consultthe bottle-boy?'

'Certainly not, Miss Oman. So you find the lady doctor no use, afterall?'

Miss Oman gnashed her teeth at me (and very fine teeth they were too).

'I called,' she said majestically, 'on behalf of Miss Bellingham.'

My facetiousness evaporated instantly. 'I hope Miss Bellingham is notill,' I said with a sudden anxiety that elicited a sardonic smile fromMiss Oman.

'No,' was the reply, 'she is not ill, but she has cut her hand ratherbadly. It's her right hand too, and she can't afford to lose the useof it, not being a great, hulky, lazy, lolloping man. So you hadbetter go and put some stuff on it.'

With this advice, Miss Oman whisked to the right-about and vanishedinto the depths of the cavern like the witch of Wokey, while I hurriedon to the surgery to provide myself with the necessary instruments andmaterials, and thence proceeded to Nevill's Court.

Miss Oman's juvenile maidservant, who opened the door to me, statedthe existing conditions with epigrammatic conciseness.

'Mr. Bellingham is hout, sir; but Miss Bellingham is hin.'

Having thus delivered herself she retreated towards the kitchen and Iascended the stairs, at the head of which I found Miss Bellinghamawaiting me with her right hand encased in what looked like a whiteboxing-glove.

'I'm glad you have come,' she said. 'Phyllis--Miss Oman, you know--haskindly bound up my hand, but I should like you to see that it is allright.'

We went into the sitting-room, where I laid out my paraphernalia onthe table while I inquired into the particulars of the accident.

'It is most unfortunate that it should have happened just now,' shesaid, as I wrestled with one of those remarkable feminine knots that,while they seem to defy the utmost efforts of human ingenuity tountie, yet have a singular habit of untying themselves at inopportunemoments.

'Why just now in particular?' I asked.

'Because I have some specially important work to do. A very learnedlady who is writing an historical book has commissioned me to collectall the literature relating to the Tell el Amarna letters--thecuneiform tablets, you know, of Amenhotep the Fourth.'

'Well,' I said soothingly, 'I expect your hand will soon be well.'

'Yes, but that won't do. The work has to be done immediately. I haveto send in completed notes not later than this day week, and it willbe quite impossible. I am dreadfully disappointed.'

By this time I had unwound the voluminous wrappings and exposed theinjury--a deep gash in the palm that must have narrowly missed a good-sized artery. Obviously the hand would be useless for fully a week.

'I suppose,' she said, 'you couldn't patch it up so that I could writewith it?'

I shook my head.

'No, Miss Bellingham. I shall have to put it on a splint. We can't runany risks with a deep wound like this.'

'Then I shall have to give up the commission, and I don't know how myclient will get the work done in the time. You see, I am pretty wellup in the literature of Ancient Egypt; in fact, I was to receivespecial payment on that account. And it would have been such aninteresting task, too. However, it can't be helped.'

I proceeded methodically with the application of the dressings, andmeanwhile reflected. It was evident that she was deeply disappointed.Loss of work meant loss of money, and it needed but a glance at herrusty black dress to see that there was little margin for that.Possibly, too, there was some special need to be met. Her mannerseemed almost to imply that there was. And at this point I had abrilliant idea.

'I'm not sure that it can't be helped,' said I.

She looked at me inquiringly, and I continued: 'I am going to make aproposition, and I shall ask you to consider it with an open mind.'

'That sounds rather portentous,' said she; 'but I promise. What isit?'

'It is this: When I was a student I acquired the useful art of writingshorthand. I am not a lightning reporter, you understand, but I cantake matter down from dictation at quite respectable speed.'

'Yes.'

'Well, I have several hours free every day--usually the wholeafternoon up to six or half-past--and it occurs to me that if you wereto go to the Museum in the mornings you could get out your book, lookup passages (you could do that without using your right hand), and putin bookmarks. Then I could come along in the afternoon and you couldread out the selected passages to me, and I could take them down inshorthand. We should get through as much in a couple of hours as youcould in a day using long-hand.'

'Oh, but how kind of you, Dr. Berkeley!' she exclaimed. 'How verykind! Of course, I couldn't think of taking up all your leisure inthat way; but I do appreciate your kindness very much.'

I was rather chapfallen at this very definite refusal, but persistedfeebly:

'I wish you would. It may seem rather a cheek for a comparativestranger like me to make such a proposal to a lady: but if you'd beena man--in those special circumstances--I should have made it all thesame, and you would have accepted as a matter of course.'

'I doubt that. At any rate, I am not a man. I sometimes wish I were.'

'Oh, I am sure you are much better as you are!' I exclaimed, with suchearnestness that we both laughed. And at this moment Mr. Bellinghamentered the room carrying several large brand-new books in a strap.

He thumped his parcel of books down on the table and listenedsmilingly while my unconscious witticism was expounded.

'The doctor's quite right,' he said. 'You'll do as you are, chick; butthe Lord knows what sort of man you would make. You take his adviceand let well alone.'

Finding him in this genial frame of mind, I ventured to explain myproposition to him and to enlist his support. He considered it withattentive approval, and when I had finished turned to his daughter.

'What is your objection, chick?' he asked.

'It would give Doctor Berkeley such a fearful lot of work,' sheanswered.

'It would give him a fearful lot of pleasure,' I said. 'It wouldreally.'

'Then why not?' said Mr. Bellingham. 'We don't mind being under anobligation to the Doctor, do we?'

'Oh, it isn't that!' she exclaimed hastily.

'Then take him at his word. He means it. It is a kind action and he'lllike doing it, I'm sure. That's all right, Doctor; she accepts, don'tyou, chick?'

'Yes, if you say so, I do; and most thankfully.'

She accompanied the acceptance with a gracious smile that was initself a large repayment on account, and when we had made thenecessary arrangements, I hurried away in a state of the most perfectsatisfaction to finish my morning's work and order an early lunch.

When I called for her a couple of hours later I found her waiting inthe garden with the shabby handbag, of which I relieved her, and weset forth together, watched jealously by Miss Oman, who hadaccompanied her to the gate.

As I walked up the court with this wonderful maid by my side I couldhardly believe in my good fortune. By her presence and my ownresulting happiness the mean surroundings became glorified and thecommonest objects transfigured into things of beauty. What adelightful thoroughfare, for instance, was Fetter Lane, with itsquaint charm and mediaeval grace! I snuffed the cabbage-ladenatmosphere and seemed to breathe the scent of the asphodel. Holbornwas even as the Elysian Fields; the omnibus that bore us westward wasa chariot of glory; and the people who swarmed verminously on thepavements bore the semblance of the children of light.

Love is a foolish thing judged by workaday standards, and the thoughtsand actions of lovers foolish beyond measure. But the workadaystandard is the wrong one, after all; for the utilitarian mind doesbut busy itself with the trivial and transitory interests of life,behind which looms the great and everlasting reality of the love ofman and woman. There is more significance in a nightingale's song inthe hush of a summer night than in all the wisdom of Solomon (who, bythe way, was not without his little experiences of the tenderpassion).

The janitor in the little glass box by the entrance to the libraryinspected us and passed us on, with a silent benediction, to thelobby, whence (when I had handed my stick to a bald-headed demigod andreceived a talismanic disc in exchange) we entered the enormousrotunda of the reading-room.

I have often thought that, if some lethal vapour of highlypreservative properties--such as formaldehyde, for instance--could beshed into the atmosphere of this apartment, the entire and completecollection of books and book-worms would be well worth preserving, forthe enlightenment of posterity, as a sort of anthropological appendixto the main collection of the Museum. For, surely, nowhere else in theworld are so many strange and abnormal human beings gathered togetherin one place. And a curious question that must have occurred to manyobservers is: Whence do these singular creatures come, and whither dothey go when the very distinct-faced clock (adjusted to literaryeyesight) proclaims closing time? The tragic-faced gentleman, forinstance, with the corkscrew ringlets that bob up and down like spiralsprings as he walks? Or the short, elderly gentleman in the blackcassock and bowler hat, who shatters your nerves by turning suddenlyand revealing himself as a middle-aged woman? Whither do they go? Onenever sees them elsewhere. Do they steal away at closing time into thedepths of the Museum and hide themselves until morning in sarcophagior mummy cases? Or do they creep through spaces in the book-shelvesand spend the night behind the volumes in a congenial atmosphere ofleather and antique paper? Who can say? What I do know is that whenRuth Bellingham entered the reading-room she appeared in comparisonwith these like a creature of another order; even as the head ofAntinous, which formerly stood (it has since been moved) amidst theportrait-busts of the Roman Emperors, seemed like the head of a godset in a portrait gallery of illustrious baboons.

'What have we got to do?' I asked when we had found a vacant seat. 'Doyou want to look up the catalogue?'

'No, I have the tickets in my bag. The books are waiting in the "keptbooks" department.'

I placed my hat on the leather-covered shelf, dropped her gloves intoit--how delightfully intimate and companionable it seemed!--alteredthe numbers on the tickets, and then we proceeded together to the'kept books' desk to collect the volumes that contained the materialfor our day's work.

It was a blissful afternoon. Two and a half hours of happinessunalloyed did I spend at that shiny, leather-clad desk, guiding mynimble pen across the pages of the notebook. It introduced me to anewt world--a world in which love and learning, sweet intimacy andcrusted archaeology, were mingled into the oddest, most whimsical andmost delicious confection that the mind of man can conceive. Hitherto,these recondite histories had been far beyond my ken. Of the wonderfulheretic, Amenhotep the Fourth, I had already heard--at the most he hadbeen a mere name; the Hittites a mythical race of undeterminedhabitat; while cuneiform tablets had presented themselves to my mindmerely as an uncouth kind of fossil biscuit suited to the digestion ofa prehistoric ostrich.

Now all this was changed. As we sat with our chairs creaking togetherand she whispered the story of those stirring times into my receptiveear--talking is strictly forbidden in the reading-room--thedisjointed fragments arranged themselves into a romance of supremefascination. Egyptian, Babylonian, Aramaean, Hittite, Memphis,Babylon, Hamath, Megiddo--I swallowed them all thankfully, wrote themdown, and asked for more. Only once did I disgrace myself. An elderlyclergyman of ascetic and acidulous aspect had passed us with a glanceof evident disapproval, clearly setting us down as intrudingphilanderers; and when I contrasted the parson's probable conceptionof the whispered communications that were being poured into my ear sotenderly and confidentially with the dry reality, I chuckled aloud.But my fair taskmistress only paused, with her finger on the page,smilingly to rebuke me, and then went on with the dictation. She wascertainly a Tartar for work.

It was a proud moment for me when, in response to my interrogative'Yes?' my companion said 'That is all' and closed the book. We hadextracted the pith and marrow of six considerable volumes in two and ahalf hours.

'You have been better than your word,' she said. 'It would have takenme two full days of really hard work to make the notes that you havewritten down since we commenced. I don't know how to thank you.'

'There's no need to. I've enjoyed myself and polished up my shorthand.What is the next thing? We shall want some books for to-morrow, shan'twe?'

'Yes. I have made out a list, so if you will come with me to thecatalogue desk I will look out the numbers and ask you to write thetickets.'

The selection of a fresh batch of authorities occupied us for anotherquarter of an hour, and then, having handed in the volumes that we hadsqueezed dry, we took our way out of the reading-room.

'Which way shall we go?' she asked as we passed out of the gate, wherestood a massive policeman, like the guardian angel at the gate ofParadise (only, thank Heaven! he bore no flaming sword forbidding re-entry).

'We are going,' I replied, 'to Museum Street, where is a milkshop inwhich one can get an excellent cup of tea.'

She looked as if she would have demurred, but eventually followedobediently, and we were soon settled side by side at the littlemarble-topped table, retracing the ground we had covered in theafternoon's work and discussing various points of interest over ajoint teapot.

'Have you been doing this sort of work long?' I asked, as she handedme my second cup of tea.

'Professionally,' she answered, 'only about two years; since we brokeup our home, in fact. But long before that I used to come to theMuseum with my Uncle John--the one who disappeared, you know, in thatdreadfully mysterious way--and help him to look up references. We weregood friends, he and I.'

'I suppose he was a very learned man?' I suggested.

'Yes, in a certain way; in the way of the better-class collector hewas very learned indeed. He knew the contents of every museum in theworld, in so far as they were connected with Egyptian antiquities, andhad studied them specimen by specimen. Consequently, as Egyptology islargely a museum science, he was a learned Egyptologist. But his realinterest was in things rather than events. Of course, he knew a greatdeal--a very great deal--about Egyptian history, but still he was,before all, a collector.'

'And what will happen to his collection if he is really dead?'

'The greater part of it goes to the British Museum by his will, andthe remainder he has left to his solicitor, Mr. Jellicoe.'

'To Mr. Jellicoe! Why, what will Mr. Jellicoe do with Egyptianantiquities?'

'Oh, he is an Egyptologist too, and quite an enthusiast. He has reallya fine collection of scarabs and other small objects such as it ispossible to keep in a private house. I have always thought that it washis enthusiasm for everything Egyptian that brought him and my uncletogether on terms of such intimacy; though I believe he is anexcellent lawyer, and he is certainly a very discreet, cautious man.'

'Is he? I shouldn't have thought so, judging by your uncle's will.'

'Oh, but that was not Mr. Jellicoe's fault. He assures us that heentreated my uncle to let him draw up a fresh document with morereasonable provisions. But he says Uncle John was immovable; and hereally was a rather obstinate man. Mr. Jellicoe repudiates anyresponsibility in the matter. He washes his hands of the whole affair,and says that it is the will of a lunatic. And so it is. I wasglancing through it only a night or two ago, and really I cannotconceive how a sane man could have written such nonsense.'

'Yes. Would you like to see it? I know my father has told you aboutit, and it is worth reading as a curiosity of perverseness.'

'I should very much like to show it to my friend, Doctor Thorndyke,' Ireplied. 'He said he would be interested to read it and learn theexact provisions; and it might be well to let him, and hear what hehas to say about it.'

'I see no objection,' she rejoined; 'but you know what my father is:his horror, I mean, of what he calls "cadging for advice gratis".'

'Oh, but he need have no scruples on that score. Doctor Thorndykewants to see the will because the case interests him. He is anenthusiast, you know, and he put the request as a personal favour tohimself.'

'That is very nice and delicate of him, and I will explain theposition to my father. If he is willing for Doctor Thorndyke to seethe copy, I will send or bring it over this evening. Have wefinished?'

I regretfully admitted that we had, and, when I had paid the modestreckoning, we sallied forth, turning back with one accord into GreatRussell Street to avoid the noise and bustle of the largerthoroughfares.

'What sort of man was your uncle?' I asked presently, as we walkedalong the quiet, dignified street. And then I added hastily: 'I hopeyou don't think me inquisitive, but, to my mind, he presents himselfas a kind of mysterious abstraction; the unknown quantity of a legalproblem.'

'My Uncle John,' she answered reflectively, 'was a very peculiar man,rather obstinate, very self-willed, what people call "masterful", anddecidedly wrong-headed and unreasonable.'

'That is certainly the impression that the terms of his will convey,'I said.

'Yes, and not the will only. There was the absurd allowance that hemade to my father. That was a ridiculous arrangement, and very unfairtoo. He ought to have divided the property up as my grandfatherintended. And yet he was by no means ungenerous, only he would havehis own way, and his own way was very commonly the wrong way.'

'I remember,' she continued, after a short pause, 'a very odd instanceof his wrong-headedness and obstinacy. It was a small matter, but verytypical of him. He had in his collection a beautiful little ring ofthe eighteenth dynasty. It was said to have belonged to Queen Ti, themother of our friend Amenhotep the Fourth; but I don't think thatcould have been so, because the device on it was the Eye of Osiris,and Ti, as you know, was an Aten-worshipper. However, it was a verycharming ring, and Uncle John, who had a queer sort of devotion to themystical eye of Osiris, commissioned a very clever goldsmith to maketwo exact copies of it, one for himself and one for me. The goldsmithnaturally wanted to take the measurements of our fingers, but thisUncle John would not hear of; the rings were to be exact copies, andan exact copy must be the same size as the original. You can imaginethe result; my ring was so loose that I couldn't keep it on my finger,and Uncle John's was so tight that though he did manage to get it on,he was never able to get it off. And it was only the circumstance thathis left hand was decidedly smaller than his right that made itpossible for him to wear it at all.'

'So you never wore your copy?'

'No. I wanted to have it altered to make it fit, but he objectedstrongly; so I put it away, and have it in a box still.'

'He must have been an extraordinarily pig-headed old fellow,' Iremarked.

'Yes; he was very tenacious. He annoyed my father a good deal, too, bymaking unnecessary alterations in the house in Queen Square when hefitted up his museum. We have a certain sentiment with regard to thathouse. Our people have lived in it ever since it was built, when thesquare was first laid out in the reign of Queen Anne, after whom itwas named. It is a dear old house. Would you like to see it? We arequite near it now.'

I assented eagerly. If it had been a coal-shed or a fried-fish shop Iwould still have visited it with pleasure, for the sake of prolongingour walk; but I was also really interested in this old house as a partof the background of the mystery of the vanished John Bellingham.

We crossed into Cosmo Place, with its quaint row of the now rare,cannon-shaped iron posts, and passing through stood for a few momentslooking into the peaceful, stately old square. A party of boysdisported themselves noisily on the range of stone posts that form abodyguard round the ancient lamp-surmounted pump, but otherwise theplace was wrapped in dignified repose suited to its age and station.And very pleasant it looked on this summer afternoon with the sunlightgilding the foliage of its widespreading plane trees and lighting upthe warm-toned brick of the house-fronts. We walked slowly down theshady west side, near the middle of which my companion halted.

'This is the house,' she said. 'It looks gloomy and forsaken now; butit must have been a delightful house in the days when my ancestorscould look out of the windows through the open end of the squareacross the fields of meadows to the heights of Hampstead andHighgate.'

She stood at the edge of the pavement looking up with a curiouswistfulness at the old house; a very pathetic figure, I thought, withher handsome face and proud carriage, her threadbare dress and shabbygloves, standing at the threshold of the home that had been herfamily's for generations, that should now have been hers, and that wasshortly to pass away into the hands of strangers.

I, too, looked up at it with a strange interest, impressed bysomething gloomy and forbidding in its aspect. The windows wereshuttered from basement to attic, and no sign of life was visible.Silent, neglected, desolate, it breathed an air of tragedy. It seemedto mourn in sackcloth and ashes for its lost master. The massive doorwithin the splendid carven portico was crusted with grime, and seemedto have passed out of use as completely as the ancient lamp-irons orthe rusted extinguishers wherein the footmen were wont to quench theirtorches when some Bellingham dame was borne up the steps in her gildedchair, in the days of good Queen Anne.

It was in a somewhat sobered frame of mind that we presently turnedaway and started homeward by way of Great Ormond Street. My companionwas deeply thoughtful, relapsing for a while into that sombreness ofmanner that had so impressed me when I first met her. Nor was Iwithout a certain sympathetic pensiveness; as if, from the great,silent house, the spirit of the vanished man had issued forth to bearus company.

But still it was a delightful walk, and I was sorry when at last wearrived at the entrance to Nevill's Court, and Miss Bellingham haltedand held out her hand.

'Good-bye,' she said; 'and many, many thanks for your invaluable help.Shall I take the bag?'

'If you want it. But I must take out the note-books.'

'Why must you take them?' she asked.

'Why, haven't I got to copy the notes out into long-hand?'

An expression of utter consternation spread over her face; in fact,she was so completely taken aback that she forgot to release my hand.

'Heavens!' she exclaimed. 'How idiotic of me! But it is impossible,Doctor Berkeley! It will take you hours!'

'It is perfectly possible, and it is going to be done; otherwise thenotes would be useless. Do you want the bag?'

'No, of course not. But I am positively appalled. Hadn't you bettergive up the idea?'

'And this is the end of our collaboration?' I exclaimed tragically,giving her hand a final squeeze (whereby she became suddenly aware ofits position, and withdrew it rather hastily). 'Would you throw away awhole afternoon's work? I won't certainly; so, goodbye until to-morrow. I shall turn up in the reading-room as early as I can. You hadbetter take the tickets. Oh, and you won't forget a bin t the copy ofthe will for Doctor Thorndyke, will you?'

THE task upon which I had embarked so light-heartedly, when consideredin cold blood, did certainly appear, as Miss Bellingham had said,rather appalling. The result of two and a half hours' pretty steadywork at an average speed of nearly a hundred words a minute, wouldtake some time to transcribe into long-hand; and if the notes were tobe delivered punctually on the morrow, the sooner I got to work thebetter.

Recognising this truth, I lost no time, but, within five minutes of myarrival at the surgery, was seated at the writing-table with my copybefore me busily converting the sprawling, inexpressive charactersinto good, legible round-hand.

The occupation was by no means unpleasant, apart from the fact that itwas a labour of love; for the sentences, as I picked them up, werefragrant with the reminiscences of the gracious whisper in which theyhad first come to me. And then the matter itself was full of interest.I was gaining a fresh outlook on life, was crossing the threshold of anew world (which was her world); and so the occasional interruptionsfrom the patients, while they gave me intervals of enforced rest, werefar from welcome.

The evening wore on without any sign from Nevill's Court, and I beganto fear that Mr. Bellingham's scruples had proved insurmountable. Not,I am afraid, that I was so much concerned for the copy of the will asfor the possibility of a visit, no matter howsoever brief, from myfair employer; and when, on the stroke of half-past seven, the surgerydoor flew open with startling abruptness, my fears were allayed and myhopes shattered simultaneously. For it was Miss Oman who stalked in,holding out a blue foolscap envelope with a warlike air as if it werean ultimatum.

'I've brought you this from Mr. Bellingham,' she said. 'There's a noteinside.'

'May I read the note, Miss Oman?' I asked.

'Bless the man!' she exclaimed. 'What else would you do with it? Isn'tthat what it's brought for?'

I supposed it was; and, thanking her for her gracious permission, Iglanced through the note--a few lines authorising me to show the copyof the will to Dr. Thorndyke. When I looked up from the paper I foundher eyes fixed on me with an expression critical and ratherdisapproving.

'You seem to be making yourself mighty agreeable in a certainquarter,' she remarked.

'I make myself universally agreeable. It is my nature to.'

'Ha!' she snorted.

'Don't you find me rather agreeable?' I asked.

'Oily,' said Miss Oman. And then with a sour smile at the opennotebooks, she remarked:

'If you are referring to "idle hands",' she replied, 'I'll give you abit of advice. Don't you keep that hand idle any longer than is reallynecessary. I have my suspicions about that splint--oh, you know what Imean,' and before I had time to reply, she had taken advantage of theentrance of a couple of patients to whisk out of the surgery with theabruptness that had distinguished her arrival.

The evening consultations were considered to be over by half-pasteight; at which time Adolphus was wont with exemplary punctuality toclose the outer door of the surgery. To-night he was not less promptthan usual; and having performed this, his last daily office, andturned down the surgery gas, he reported the fact and took hisdeparture.

As his retreating footsteps died away and the slamming of the outerdoor announced his final disappearance, I sat up and stretched myself.The envelope containing the copy of the will lay on the table, and Iconsidered it thoughtfully. It ought to be conveyed to Thorndyke withas little delay as possible, and, as it certainly could not be trustedout of my hands, it ought to be conveyed by me.

I looked at the notebooks. Nearly two hours' work had made aconsiderable impression on the matter that I had to transcribe, butstill, a great deal of the task yet remained to be done. However, Ireflected, I could put in a couple of hours or more before going tobed and there would be an hour or two to spare in the morning. FinallyI locked the notebooks, open as they were, in the writing-tabledrawer, and slipping the envelope into my pocket, set out for theTemple.

The soft chime of the Treasury clock was telling out, in confidentialtones, the third quarter as I rapped with my stick on the forbidding'oak' of my friends' chambers. There was no response, nor had Iperceived any gleam of light from the windows as I approached, and Iwas considering the advisability of trying the laboratory on the nextfloor, when footsteps on the stone stairs and familiar voicesgladdened my ear.

'Hallo, Berkeley!' said Thorndyke, 'do we find you waiting like a Periat the gates of Paradise? Polton is upstairs, you know, tinkering atone of his inventions. If you ever find the nest empty, you had bettergo up and bang at the laboratory door. He's always there in theevenings.'

'I haven't been waiting long,' said I, 'and I was just thinking ofrousing him up when you came.'

'That was right,' said Thorndyke, turning up the gas. 'And what newsdo you bring? Do I see a blue envelope sticking out of your pocket?'

'You do.'

'Is it a copy of the will?' he asked.

I answered 'yes', and added that I had full permission to show it tohim.

'What did I tell you?' exclaimed Jervis. 'Didn't I say that he wouldget the copy for us if it existed?'

'We admit the excellence of your prognosis,' said Thorndyke, 'butthere is no need to be boastful. Have you read through the document,Berkeley?'

'No, I haven't taken it out of the envelope.'

'Then it will be equally new to us all, and we shall see if it tallieswith your description.'

He placed three easy chairs at a convenient distance from the light,and Jervis, watching him with a smile, remarked:

'Now Thorndyke is going to enjoy himself. To him, a perfectlyunintelligible will is a thing of beauty and a joy for ever;especially if associated with some kind of recondite knavery.'

'I don't know,' said I, 'that this will is particularlyunintelligible. The mischief seems to be that it is rather toointelligible. However, here it is,' and I handed it over to Thorndyke.

'I suppose that we can depend on this copy,' said the latter, as hedrew out the document and glanced at it. 'Oh, yes,' he added, 'I seeit is copied by Godfrey Bellingham, compared with the original andcertified correct. In that case I will get you to read it out slowly,Jervis, and I will make a rough copy for reference. Let us makeourselves comfortable and light our pipes before we begin.'

He provided himself with a writing-pad, and, when we had seatedourselves and got our pipes well alight, Jervis opened the document,and with a premonitory 'hem!' commenced the reading.

'In the name of God, Amen. This is the last will and testament of meJohn Bellingham of number 141 Queen Square in the parish of St GeorgeBloomsbury London in the county of Middlesex Gentleman made thistwenty-first day of September in the year of our Lord one thousandeight hundred and ninety-two.

'1. I give and bequeath unto Arthur Jellicoe of number 184 New SquareLincoln's Inn London in the county of Middlesex Attorney-at-law thewhole of my collection of seals and scarabs and those in my cabinetsmarked A, B, and D together with the contents thereof and the sum oftwo thousand pounds sterling free of legacy duty.

'Unto the trustees of the British Museum the residue of my collectionof antiquities.

'Unto my cousin George Hurst of The Poplars Eltham in the county ofKent the sum of five thousand pounds free of legacy duty and unto mybrother Godfrey Bellingham or if he should die before the occurrenceof my death unto his daughter Ruth Bellingham the residue of my estateand effects real and personal subject to the conditions set forthhereinafter namely:

'2. That my body shall be deposited with those of my ancestors in thechurchyard appertaining to the church and parish of St George theMartyr or if that shall not be possible in some other churchyardcemetery burial ground church or chapel or other authorised place forthe reception of bodies of the dead situate within or appertaining tothe parishes of St Andrew above the Bars and St George the Martyr orSt George Bloomsbury and St Giles in the Fields. But if the conditionin this clause be not carried out then

'3. I give and devise the said residue of my estate and effects untomy cousin George Hurst aforesaid and I hereby revoke all wills andcodicils made by me at any time heretofore and I appoint ArthurJellicoe aforesaid to be the executor of this my will jointly with theprincipal beneficiary and residuary legatee that is to say with theaforesaid Godfrey Bellingham if the conditions set forth hereinbeforein clause 2 shall be duly carried out but with the aforesaid GeorgeHurst if the said conditions in the said clause 2 be not carried out.

'john bellingham

'Signed by the said testator John Bellingham in the presence of uspresent at the same time who at his request and in his presence and inthe presence of each other have subscribed our names as witnesses.

'Frederick Wilton, 16 Medford Road, London, N, clerk.

'James Barber, 32 Wadbury Crescent, London, SW, clerk.'

'Well,' said Jervis, laying down the document as Thorndyke detachedthe last sheet from his writing-pad, 'I have met with a good manyidiotic wills, but this one can give them all points. I don't see howit is ever going to be administered. One of the two executors is amere abstraction--a sort of algebraical problem with no answer.'

'I think that difficulty could be overcome,' said Thorndyke.

'I don't see how,' retorted Jervis. 'If the body is deposited in acertain place, A is the executor; if it is somewhere else, B is theexecutor. But as you cannot produce the body, and no one has the leastidea where it is, it is impossible to prove either that it is or thatit is not in any specified place.'

'You are magnifying the difficulty, Jervis,' said Thorndyke. 'The bodymay, of course, be anywhere in the entire world, but the place whereit is lying is either inside or out the general boundary of those twoparishes. If it has been deposited within the boundary of those twoparishes, the fact must be ascertainable by examining the burialcertificates issued since the date when the missing man was last seenalive and by consulting the registers of those specified places ofburial. I think that if no record can be found of any such intermentwithin the boundary of those two parishes, that fact will be taken bythe Court as proof that no such interment has taken place, and thattherefore the body must have been deposited somewhere else. Such adecision would constitute George Hurst the co-executor and residuarylegatee.'

'That is cheerful for your friends, Berkeley,' Jervis remarked, 'forwe may take it as pretty certain that the body has not been depositedin any of the places named.'

'Yes,' I agreed gloomily, 'I'm afraid there is very little doubt ofthat. But what an ass the fellow must have been to make such a to-doabout his beastly carcass! What the deuce could it have mattered tohim where it was dumped, when he had done with it?'

Thorndyke chuckled softly. 'Thus the irreverent youth of to-day,' saidhe. 'But yours is hardly a fair comment, Berkeley. Our training makesus materialists, and puts us a little out of sympathy with those inwhom primitive beliefs and emotions survive. A worthy priest who cameto look at our dissecting-room expressed surprise to me that thestudents, thus constantly in the presence of relics of mortality,should be able to think of anything but the resurrection and the lifehereafter. He was a bad psychologist. There is nothing so dead as adissecting-room "subject"; and the contemplation of the human body inthe process of being quietly taken to pieces--being resolved into itsstructural units like a worn-out clock or an old engine in thescrapper's yard--is certainly not conducive to a vivid realisation ofthe doctrine of the resurrection.'

'No; but this absurd anxiety to be buried in some particular place hasnothing to do with religious belief; it is merely silly sentiment.'

'It is sentiment, I admit,' said Thorndyke, 'but I wouldn't call itsilly. The feeling is so widespread in time and space that we mustlook on it with respect as something inherent in human nature. Think--as doubtless John Bellingham did--of the ancient Egyptians, whosechief aspiration was that of everlasting repose for the dead. See thetrouble they took to achieve it. Think of the great Pyramid, or thatof Amenemhat the Fourth with its labyrinth of false passages and itssealed and hidden sepulchral chambers. Think of Jacob, borne afterdeath all those hundreds of weary miles in order that he might sleepwith his fathers, and then remember Shakespeare and his solemnadjuration to posterity to let him rest undisturbed in his grave. No,Berkeley, it is not a silly sentiment. I am as indifferent as you asto what becomes of my body "when I have done with it," to use yourirreverent phrase; but I recognise the solicitude that some other mendisplay on the subject as a natural feeling that has to be takenseriously.'

'But even so,' I said, 'if this man had a hankering for a freeholdresidence in some particular bone-yard, he might have gone about thebusiness in a. more reasonable way.'

'There I am entirely with you,' Thorndyke replied. 'It is the absurdway in which this provision is worded that not only creates all thetrouble but also makes the whole document so curiously significant inview of the testator's disappearance.'

'How significant?' Jervis demanded eagerly.

'Let us consider the provisions of the will point by point,' saidThorndyke; 'and first note that the testator commanded the services ofa very capable lawyer.'

'But Mr. Jellicoe disapproved of the will,' said I; 'in fact, heprotested strongly against the form of it.'

'We will bear that in mind too,' Thorndyke replied. 'And now withreference to what we may call the contentious clauses: the first thingthat strikes us is their preposterous injustice. Godfrey's inheritanceis made conditional on a particular disposal of the testator's body.But this is a matter not necessarily under Godfrey's control. Thetestator might have been lost at sea, or killed in a fire orexplosion, or have died abroad and been buried where his grave couldnot have been identified. There are numerous probable contingenciesbesides the improbable one that has happened that might prevent thebody from being recovered.

'But even if the body had been recovered, there is another difficulty.The places of burial in the parishes have all been closed for manyyears. It would be impossible to reopen any of them without a specialfaculty, and I doubt whether such a faculty would be granted. Possiblycremation might meet the difficulty, but even that is doubtful; and,in any case, the matter would not be in the control of GodfreyBellingham. Yet, if the required interment should prove impossible, heis to be deprived of his legacy.'

'It is a monstrous and absurd injustice,' I exclaimed.

'It is,' Thorndyke agreed; 'but this is nothing to the absurdity thatcomes to light when we consider clauses two and three in detail.Observe that the testator presumably wished to be buried in a certainplace; also he wished his brother should benefit under the will. Letus take the first point and see how he has set about securing theaccomplishment of what he desired. Now if we read clauses two andthree carefully, we shall see that he has rendered it virtuallyimpossible that his wishes can be carried out. He desires to be buriedin a certain place and makes Godfrey responsible for his being soburied. But he gives Godfrey no power or authority to carry out theprovision, and places insuperable obstacles in his way. For untilGodfrey is an executor, he has no power or authority to carry out theprovisions; and until the provisions are carried out, he does notbecome an executor.'

'It is a preposterous muddle,' exclaimed Jervis.

'Yes, but that is not the worst of it,' Thorndyke continued. 'Themoment John Bellingham dies, his dead body has come into existence;and it is "deposited", for the time being, wherever he happens to havedied. But unless he should happen to have died in one of the places ofburial mentioned--which is in the highest degree unlikely--his bodywill be, for the time being, "deposited" in some place other thanthose specified. In that case clause two is--for the time being--notcomplied with, and consequently George Hurst becomes, automatically,the co-executor.

'But will George Hurst carry out the provisions of clause two?Probably not. Why should he? The will contains no instructions to thateffect. It throws the whole duty on Godfrey. On the other hand, if heshould carry out clause two, what happens? He ceases to be an executorand he loses some seventy thousand pounds. We may be pretty certainthat he will do nothing of the kind. So that, on considering the twoclauses, we see that the wishes of the testator could only be carriedout in the unlikely event of his dying in one of the burial-placesmentioned, or his body being conveyed immediately after death to p.public mortuary in one of the said parishes. In any other event, it isvirtually certain that he will be buried in some place other than thatwhich he desired, and that his brother will be left absolutely withoutprovision or recognition.'

'John Bellingham could never have intended that,' I said.

'Clearly not,' agreed Thorndyke; 'the provisions of the will furnishinternal evidence that he did not. You note that he bequeathed fivethousand pounds to George Hurst, in the event of clause two beingcarried out; but he has made no bequest to his brother in the event ofits not being carried out. Obviously, he had not entertained thepossibility of this contingency at all. He assumed, as a matter ofcourse, that the conditions of clause two would be fulfilled, andregarded the conditions themselves as a mere formality.'

'But,' Jervis objected, 'Jellicoe must have seen the danger of amiscarriage and pointed it out to his client.'

'Exactly,' said Thorndyke. 'There is the mystery. We understand thathe objected strenuously, and that John Bellingham was obdurate. Now itis perfectly understandable that a man should adhere obstinately tothe most stupid and perverse disposition of his property; but that aman should persist in retaining a particular form of words after ithas been proved to him that the use of such form will almost certainlyresult in the defeat of his own wishes; that, I say, is a mystery thatcalls for very careful consideration.'

'If Jellicoe had been an interested party,' said Jervis, 'one wouldhave suspected him of lying low. But the form of clause two doesn'taffect him at all.'

'No,' said Thorndyke; 'the person who stands to profit by the muddleis George Hurst. But we understand that he was unacquainted with theterms of the will, and there is certainly nothing to suggest that heis in any way responsible for it.'

'The practical question is,' said I, 'what is going to happen? andwhat can be done for the Bellinghams?'

'The probability is,' Thorndyke replied, 'that the next move will bemade by Hurst. He is the party immediately interested. He willprobably apply to the Court for permission to presume death andadminister the will.'

'And what will the Court do?'

Thorndyke smiled dryly. 'Now you are asking a very pretty conundrum.The decisions of Courts depend on idiosyncrasies of temperament thatno one can foresee. But one may say that a Court does not lightlygrant permission to presume death. There will be a rigorous inquiry--and a decidedly unpleasant one, I suspect--and the evidence will bereviewed by the judge with a strong predisposition to regard thetestator as being still alive. On the other hand, the known factspoint very distinctly to the probability that he is dead; and, if thewill were less complicated and all the parties interested wereunanimous in supporting the application, I don't see why it might notbe granted. But it will clearly be to the interest of Godfrey tooppose the application, unless he can show that the conditions ofclause two have been complied with--which it is virtually certain hecannot; and he may be able to bring forward reasons for believing Johnto be still alive. But even if he is unable to do this, inasmuch as itis pretty clear that he was intended to be the chief beneficiary, hisopposition is likely to have considerable weight with the Court.'

'Oh, is it?' I exclaimed eagerly. 'Then that accounts for a verypeculiar proceeding on the part of Hurst. I have stupidly forgotten totell you about it. He has been trying to come to a private agreementwith Godfrey Bellingham.'

'Indeed!' said Thorndyke. 'What sort of agreement?'

'His proposal was this: that Godfrey should support him and Jellicoein an application to the Court for permission to presume death and toadminister the will, that if it was successful, Hurst should pay himfour hundred pounds a year for life: the arrangement to hold good inall eventualities.'

'By which he means?'

'That if the body should be discovered at any future time, so that theconditions of clause two could be carried out, Hurst should stillretain the property and continue to pay Godfrey the four hundred ayear for life.'

'The law does not look with much favour on any little arrangementsthat aim at getting behind the provisions of a will,' Thorndykereplied; 'though there would be nothing to complain of in thisproposal if it were not for the reference to "all eventualities". If awill is hopelessly impracticable, it is not unreasonable or improperfor the various beneficiaries to make such private arrangements amongthemselves as may seem necessary to avoid useless litigation and delayin administering the will. If, for instance, Hurst had proposed to payfour hundred a year to Godfrey so long as the body remainedundiscovered on condition that, in the event of its discovery, Godfreyshould pay him a like sum for life, there would have been nothing tocomment upon. It would have been an ordinary sporting chance. But thereference to "all eventualities" is an entirely different matter. Ofcourse, it may be mere greediness, but all the same it suggests somevery curious reflections.'

'Yes, it does,' said Jervis. 'I wonder if he has any reason to expectthat the body will be found? Of course it doesn't follow that he has.He may be merely taking the opportunity offered by the other man'spoverty to make sure of the bulk of the property whatever happens. Butit is uncommonly sharp practice, to say the least.'

'Do I understand that Godfrey declined the proposal?' Thorndyke asked.

'Yes, he did, very emphatically; and I fancy the two gentlemenproceeded to exchange opinions on the circumstances of thedisappearance with more frankness than delicacy.'

'Ah,' said Thorndyke, 'that is a pity. If the case comes into Court,there is bound to be a good deal of unpleasant discussion and stillmore unpleasant comment in the newspapers. But if the partiesthemselves begin to express suspicions of one another there is notelling where the matter will end.'

'No, by Jove!' said Jervis. 'If they begin flinging accusations ofmurder about, the fat will be in the fire with a vengeance. That waylies the Old Bailey.'

'We must try to prevent them from making an unnecessary scandal,' saidThorndyke. 'It may be that an exposure will be unavoidable, and thatmust be ascertained in advance. But to return to your question,Berkeley, as to what is to be done. Hurst will probably make some movepretty soon. Do you know if Jellicoe will act with him?'

'No, he won't. He declines to take any steps without Godfrey'sassent--at least, that is what he says at present. His attitude is oneof correct neutrality.'

'That is satisfactory so far,' said Thorndyke, 'though he may alterhis tone when the case comes into Court. From what you said just now Igathered that Jellicoe would prefer to have the will administered andbe quit of the whole business; which is natural enough, especially ashe benefits under the will to the extent of two thousand pounds and avaluable collection. Consequently, we may fairly assume that, even ifhe maintains an apparent neutrality, his influence will be exerted infavour of Hurst rather than of Bellingham; from which it follows thatBellingham ought certainly to be properly advised, and, when the casegoes into Court, properly represented.'

'He can't afford either the one or the other,' said I. 'He's as pooras an insolvent church mouse and as proud as the devil. He wouldn'taccept professional aid that he couldn't pay for.'

'H'm,' grunted Thorndyke, 'that's awkward. But we can't allow the caseto go "by default", so to speak--to fail for the mere lack oftechnical assistance. Besides, it is one of the most interesting casesthat I have ever met with, and I am not going to see it bungled. Hecouldn't object to a little general advice in a friendly, informalway--amicus curia, as old Brodribb is so fond of saying; and there isnothing to prevent us from pushing forward the preliminary inquiries.'

'Of what nature would they be?'

'Well, to begin with, we have to satisfy ourselves that the conditionsof clause two have not been complied with: that John Bellingham hasnot been buried within the parish boundaries mentioned. Of course hehas not, but we must not take anything for granted. Then we have tosatisfy ourselves that he is not still alive and accessible. It isperfectly possible that he is, after all, and it is our business totrace him, if he is still in the land of the living. Jervis and I cancarry out these investigations without saying anything to Bellingham;my learned brother will look through the register of burials--notforgetting the cremations--in the metropolitan area, and I will takethe other matter in hand.'

'You really think that John Bellingham may still be alive?' said I.

'Since his body has not been found, it is obviously a possibility. Ithink it in the highest degree improbable, but the improbable has tobe investigated before it can be excluded.'

'It sounds rather a hopeless quest,' I remarked. 'How do you proposeto begin?'

'I think of beginning at the British Museum. The people there may beable to throw some light on his movements. I know that there are someimportant evacuations in progress at Heliopolis--in fact, the Directorof the Egyptian Department is out there at the present moment; andDoctor Norbury, who is taking his place temporarily, is an old friendof Bellingham's. I shall call on him and try to discover if there isanything that might have induced Bellingham suddenly to go abroad--toHeliopolis, for instance. Also he may be able to tell me what it wasthat took the missing man to Paris on that last, rather mysteriousjourney. That might turn out to be an important clue. And meanwhile,Berkeley, you must endeavour tactfully to reconcile your friend to theidea of letting us give an eye to the case. Make it clear to him thatI am doing this entirely for the enlargement of my own knowledge.'

'But won't you have to be instructed by a solicitor?' I asked.

'Yes, nominally; but only as a matter of etiquette. We shall do allthe actual work. Why do you ask?'

'I was thinking of the solicitor's costs, and I was going to mentionthat I have a little money of my own--'

'Then you keep it, my dear fellow. You'll want it when you go intopractice. There will be no difficulty about the solicitor; I shall askone of my friends to act nominally as a personal favour to me--Marchmont would take the case for us, Jervis, I am sure.'

'Yes,' said Jervis. 'Or old Brodribb, if we put it to him amicuscuria.'

'It is excessively kind of both of you to take this benevolentinterest in the case of my friends,' I said; 'and it is to be hopedthat they won't be foolishly proud and stiff-necked about it. It'srather the way with poor gentlefolk.'

'I'll tell you what!' exclaimed Jervis. 'I have a most brilliant idea.You shall give us a little supper at your rooms and invite theBellinghams to meet us. Then you and I will attack the old gentleman,and Thorndyke shall exercise his persuasive powers on the lady. Thesechronic incurable old bachelors, you know, are quite irresistible.'

'You observe that my respected junior condemns me to lifelongcelibacy,' Thorndyke remarked. 'But,' he added, 'his suggestion isquite a good one. Of course, we mustn't put any sort of pressure onBellingham to employ us--for that is what it amounts to, even if weaccept no payment--but a friendly talk over the supper-table wouldenable us to put the matter delicately and yet convincingly.'

'Yes,' said I, 'I see that, and I like the idea immensely. But itwon't be possible for several days, because I've got a job that takesup all my spare time--and that I ought to be at work on now,' I added,with a sudden qualm at the way in which I had forgotten the passage oftime in the interest of Thorndyke's analysis.

My two friends looked at me inquiringly and I felt it necessary toexplain about the injured hand and the Tell el Amarna tablets; which Iaccordingly did rather shyly and with a nervous eye upon Jervis. Theslow grin, however, for which I was watching, never came; on thecontrary, he not only heard me through quite gravely, but when I hadfinished said with some warmth, and using my old hospital pet name:

'I'll say one thing for you, Polly; you're a good chum, and you alwayswere. I hope your Nevill's Court friends appreciate the fact.'

They are far more appreciative than the occasion warrants,' Ianswered. 'But to return to this question: how will this day week suityou?'

'It will suit me,' Thorndyke answered, with a glance at his junior.

'And me too,' said the latter; 'so, if it will do for the Bellinghams,we will consider it settled; but if they can't come, you must fixanother night.'

'Very well,' I said, rising and knocking out my pipe, 'I will issuethe invitation to-morrow. And now I must be off to have another slogat those notes.'

As I walked homewards I speculated cheerfully on the prospect ofentertaining my friends under my own (or rather Barnard's) roof, ifthey could be lured out of their eremitical retirement. The idea had,in fact, occurred to me already, but I had been deterred by thepeculiarities of Barnard's housekeeper. For Mrs. Gummer was one ofthose housewives who make up for an archaic simplicity of productionby preparations on the most portentous and alarming scale. But thistime I would not be deterred. If only the guests could be enticed intomy humble lair it would be easy to furnish the raw materials of thefeast from outside; and the consideration of ways and means occupiedme pleasantly until I found myself once more at my writing-table,confronted by my voluminous notes on the incidents of the North SyrianWar.

CHAPTER VIII. A MUSEUM IDYLL

WHETHER it was that practice revived a forgotten skill on my part, orthat Miss Bellingham had over-estimated the amount of work to be done,I am unable to say. But whichever may have been the explanation, thefact is that the fourth afternoon saw our task so nearly completedthat I was fain to plead that a small remainder might be left over toform an excuse for yet one more visit to the reading-room.

Short, however, as had been the period of our collaboration, it hadbeen long enough to produce a great change in our relations to oneanother. For there is no friendship so intimate and satisfying as thatengendered by community of work, and none--between man and woman, atany rate--so frank and wholesome.

Every day had arrived to find a pile of books with the places dulymarked and the blue-covered quarto notebooks in readiness. Every daywe had worked steadily at the allotted task, had then handed in thebooks and gone forth together to enjoy a most companionable tea in themilk-shop; thereafter to walk home by way of Queen Square, talkingover the day's work and discussing the state of the world in the far-off days when Ahkhenaten was king and the Tell el Amarna tablets werea-writing.

It had been a pleasant time, so pleasant, that as I handed in thebooks for the last time, I sighed to think that it was over; that notonly was the task finished, but that the recovery of my fair patient'shand, from which I had that morning removed the splint, had put an endto the need of my help.

'What shall we do?' I asked, as we came out into the central hall. 'Itis too early for tea. Shall we go and look at some of the galleries?'

'Why not?' she answered. 'We might look over some of the thingsconnected with what we have been doing. For instance, there is arelief of Ahkhenaten upstairs in the Third Egyptian Room; we might goand look at it.'

I fell in eagerly with the suggestion, placing myself under herexperienced guidance, and we started by way of the Roman Gallery, pastthe long row of extremely commonplace and modern-looking RomanEmperors.

'I don't know,' she said, pausing for a moment opposite a bustlabelled 'Trajan' (but obviously a portrait of Phil May), 'how I amever even to thank you for all that you have done, to say nothing ofrepayment.'

'There is no need to do either,' I replied. 'I have enjoyed workingwith you so I have had my reward. But still,' I added, 'if you want todo me a great kindness, you have it in your power.'

'How?'

'In connection with my friend, Doctor Thorndyke. I told you he was anenthusiast. Now he is, for some reason, most keenly interested ineverything relating to your uncle, and I happen to know that, if anylegal proceedings should take place, he would very much like to keep afriendly eye on the case.'

'And what do you want me to do?'

'I want you, if an opportunity should occur for him to give yourfather advice or help of any kind, to use your influence with yourfather in favour of, rather than in opposition to, his accepting it--always assuming that you have no real feeling against his doing so.'

Miss Bellingham looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments, and thenlaughed softly.

'So the great kindness that I am to do you is to let you do me afurther kindness through your friend!'

'No,' I protested; 'that is where you are mistaken. It isn'tbenevolence on Doctor Thorndyke's part; it's professional enthusiasm.'

She smiled sceptically.

'You don't believe in it,' I said; 'but consider other cases. Why doesa surgeon get out of bed on a winter's night to do an emergencyoperation at a hospital? He doesn't get paid for it. Do you think itis altruism?'

'Yes, of course. Isn't it?'

'Certainly not. He does it because it is his job, because it is hisbusiness to fight with disease--and win.'

'I don't see much difference,' she said. 'It's work done for loveinstead of for payment. However, I will do as you ask if theopportunity arises; but I shan't suppose that I am repaying yourkindness to me.'

'I don't mind so long as you do it,' I said, and we walked on for sometime in silence.

'Isn't it odd,' she said presently, 'how our talk always seems to comeback to my uncle? Oh, and that reminds me that the things he gave tothe Museum are in the same room as the Ahkhenaten relief. Would youlike to see them?'

'Of course I should.'

'Then we will go and look at them first.' She paused, and then, rathershyly and with a rising colour, she continued: 'And I think I shouldlike to introduce you to a very dear friend of mine--with yourpermission, of course.'

This last addition she made hastily, seeing, I suppose, that I lookedrather glum at the suggestion. Inwardly I consigned her friend to thedevil, especially if of the masculine gender; outwardly I expressed myfelicity at making the acquaintance of any person whom she shouldhonour with her friendship. Whereat, to my discomfiture, she laughedenigmatically; a very soft laugh, low-pitched and musical, like thecooing of a glorified pigeon.

I strolled on by her side, speculating a little anxiously on thecoming introduction. Was I being conducted to the lair of one of theservants attached to the establishment? and would he add a superfluousthird to our little party of two, so complete and companionable, soluscum sola, in this populated wilderness? Above all, would he turn outto be a young man, and bring my aerial castles tumbling about my ears.The shy look and the blush with which she had suggested theintroduction were ominous indications, upon which I mused gloomily aswe ascended the stairs and passed through the wide doorway. I glancedapprehensively at my companion, and met a quiet, inscrutable smile;and at that moment she halted opposite a wall-case and faced me.

'This is my friend,' she said. 'Let me present you to Artemidorus,late of the Fayyum. Oh, don't smile!' she pleaded. 'I am quiteserious. Have you never heard of pious Catholics who cherish adevotion to some long-departed saint? That is my feeling towardsArtemidorus, and if you only knew what comfort he has shed into theheart of a lonely woman; what a quiet, unobtrusive friend he has beento me in my solitary, friendless days, always ready with a kindlygreeting on his gentle, thoughtful face, you would like him for thatalone. And I want you to like him and to share our silent friendship.Am I very silly, very sentimental?'

A wave of relief swept over me, and the mercury of my emotionalthermometer, which had shrunk almost into the bulb, leaped up tosummer heat. How charming it was of her and how sweetly intimate, towish to share this mystical friendship with me! And what a prettyconceit it was, too, and how like this strange, inscrutable maiden, tocome here and hold silent converse with this long-departed Greek. Andthe pathos of it all touched me deeply amidst the joy of this new-bornintimacy.

'Are you scornful?' she asked, with a shade of disappointment, as Imade no reply.

'No, indeed I am not,' I answered earnestly. 'I want to make you awareof my sympathy and my appreciation without offending you by seeming toexaggerate, and I don't know how to express it.' Oh, never mind aboutthe expression, so long as you feel it. I thought you wouldunderstand,' and she gave me a smile that made me tingle to my finger-tips.

We stood awhile gazing in silence at the mummy--for such, indeed, washer friend Artemidorus. But not an ordinary mummy. Egyptian in form,it was entirely Greek in feeling; and brightly coloured as it was, inaccordance with the racial love of colour, the tasteful refinementwith which the decoration of the case was treated made those aroundlook garish and barbaric. But the most striking feature was a charmingpanel picture which occupied the place of the usual mask. Thispainting was a revelation to me. Except that it was executed intempera instead of oil, it differed in no respect from modern work.There was nothing archaic or ancient about it. With its freedom ofhandling and its correct rendering of light and shade, it might havebeen painted yesterday; indeed, enclosed in an ordinary gilt frame, itmight have passed without remark in an exhibition of modern portraits.

Miss Bellingham observed my admiration and smiled approvingly.

'It is a charming little portrait, isn't it?' she said; 'and such asweet face too; so thoughtful and human, with a shade of melancholy.But the whole thing is full of charm. I fell in love with it the firsttime I saw it. And it is so Greek!'

'Yes, it is, in spite of the Egyptian gods and symbols.'

'Rather because of them, I think,' said she. 'There we have thetypical Greek attitude, the genial, cultivated electicism thatappreciated the fitness of even the most alien forms of art. There isAnubis standing beside the bier; there are Isis and Nephthys, andthere below Horus and Tahuti. But we can't suppose Artemidorusworshipped or believed in those gods. They are there because they aresplendid decoration and perfectly appropriate in character. The realfeeling of those who loved the dead man breaks out in theinscription.' She pointed to a band below the pectoral, where, in giltcapital letters, was written the two words, (Greek).'

'Yes,' I said, 'it is very dignified and very human.'

'And so sincere and full of real emotion,' she added. 'I find itunspeakably touching. "O Artemidorus, farewell!" There is the realnote of human grief, the sorrow of eternal parting. How much finer itis than the vulgar boastfulness of the Semitic epitaphs, or our ownmiserable, insincere make-believe of the "Not lost but gone before"type. He has gone from them for ever; they would look on his face andhear his voice no more; they realised that this was their lastfarewell. Oh, there is a world of love and sorrow in those two simplewords!'

For some time neither of us spoke. The glamour of this touchingmemorial of a long-buried grief had stolen over me, and I was contentto stand silent by my beloved companion and revive, with a certainpensive pleasure, the ghosts of human emotions over which the manycenturies had rolled. Presently she turned to me with a frank smile.'You have been weighed in the balance of friendship,' she said, 'andnot found wanting. You have the gift of sympathy, even with a woman'ssentimental fancies.'

I suspected that a good many men would have developed this preciousquality under the circumstances, but I refrained from saying so. Thereis no use in crying down one's own wares. I was glad enough to haveearned her good opinion so easily, and when she at length turned awayfrom the case and passed through into the adjoining room, it was avery complacent young man who bore her company.

'Here is Ahkhenaten--or Khu-en-aten, as the authorities here renderthe hieroglyphics. She indicated a fragment of a coloured relieflabelled: 'Portion of a painted stone tablet with a portrait figure ofAmenhotep IV, and we stopped to look at the frail, effeminate figureof the great king, with his large cranium, his queer, pointed chin,and the Aten rays stretching out their weird hands as if caressinghim.

'We mustn't stay here if you want to see my uncle's gift, because thisroom closes at four to-day.' With this admonition she moved on to theother end of the room, where she halted before a large floor-casecontaining a mummy and a large number of other objects. A black labelwith white lettering set forth the various contents with a briefexplanation as follows:

'Mummy of Sebekhotep, a scribe of the twenty-second dynasty, togetherwith the objects found in the tomb. These include the four Canopicjars, in which the internal organs were deposited, the Ushabtifigures, tomb provisions and various articles that had belonged to thedeceased; his favourite chair, his head-rest, his ink-palette,inscribed with his name and the name of the king, Osorkon I, in whosereign he lived, and other smaller articles. Presented by JohnBellingham, Esq.'

'They have put all the objects together in one case,' Miss Bellinghamexplained, 'to show the contents of an ordinary tomb of the betterclass. You see that the dead man was provided with all his ordinarycomforts: provisions, furniture, the ink-palette that he had beenaccustomed to use in writing on papyri, and a staff of servants towait on him.'

'Where are the servants?' I asked.

'The little Ushabti figures,' she answered; 'they were the attendantsof the dead, you know, his servants in the under-world. It was aquaint idea, wasn't it? But it was all very complete and consistent,and quite reasonable, too, if one once accepts the belief in thepersistence of the individual apart from the body.'

'Yes,' I agreed, 'and that is the only fair way to judge a religioussystem, by taking the main beliefs for granted. But what a business itmust have been, bringing all these things from Egypt to London.'

'It was worth the trouble, though, for it is a fine and instructivecollection. And the work is all very good of its kind. You notice thatthe Ushabti figures and the heads that form the stoppers of theCanopic jars are quite finely modelled. The mummy itself, too, israther handsome, though that coat of bitumen on the back doesn'timprove it. But Sebekhotep must have been a fine-looking man.'

'The mask on the face is a portrait, I suppose?'

'Yes; in fact, it's rather more. To some extent it is the actual faceof the man himself. This mummy is enclosed in what is called acartonnage, that is a case moulded on the figure. The cartonnage wasformed of a number of layers of linen or papyrus united by glue orcement, and when the case had been fitted to a mummy it was moulded tothe body, so that the general form of the features and limbs was oftenapparent. After the cement was dry the case was covered with a thinlayer of stucco and the face modelled more completely, and thendecorations and inscriptions were painted on. So that, you see, in acartonnage, the body was sealed up like a nut in its shell, unlike themore ancient forms in which the mummy was merely rolled up andenclosed in a wooden coffin.'

At this moment there smote upon our ears a politely protesting voiceannouncing in sing-song tones that it was closing time; andsimultaneously a desire for tea suggested the hospitable milk-shop.With leisurely dignity that ignored the official who shepherded usalong the galleries, we made our way to the entrance, still immersedin conversation on matters sepulchral.

It was rather earlier than our usual hour for leaving the Museum and,moreover, it was our last day--for the present. Wherefore we lingeredover our tea to an extent that caused the milk-shop lady to view uswith some disfavour, and when at length we started homeward, we tookso many short cuts that six o'clock found us no nearer our destinationthan Lincoln's Inn Fields; whither we had journeyed by a slightlyindirect route that traversed (among other places) Russell Square, RedLion Square, with the quaint passage of the same name, Bedford Row,Jockey's Fields, Hand Court, and Great Turnstile.

It was in the latter thoroughfare that our attention was attracted bya flaming poster outside a newsvendor's bearing the startlinginscription:

MORE MEMENTOES

OF MURDERED MAN

.'

Miss Bellingham glanced at the poster and shuddered.

'Horrible, isn't it?' she said. 'Have you read about them?'

'I haven't been noticing the papers the last few days,' I replied.

'No, of course you haven't. You've been slaving at those wretchednotes. We don't very often see the papers, at least we don't take themin, but Miss Oman has kept us supplied during the last day or two. Sheis a perfect little ghoul; she delights in horrors of every kind, andthe more horrible the better.'

'But,' I asked, 'what is it they have found?'

'Oh, they are the remains of some poor creature who seems to have beenmurdered and cut into pieces. It is dreadful. It made me shudder toread of it, for I couldn't help thinking of poor Uncle John, and, asfor my father, he was really quite upset.'

'Are these the bones that were found in a watercress-bed at Sidcup?'

'Yes, but they have found several more. The police have been mostenergetic. They seem to have been making a systematic search, and theresult has been that they have discovered several portions of thebody, scattered about in very widely separated places--Sidcup, Lee,St Mary Cray; and yesterday it was reported that an arm had been foundin one of the ponds called "the Cuckoo Pits," close to our old home.'

'What! in Essex?' I exclaimed.

'Yes, in Epping Forest, quite near Woodford. Isn't it dreadful tothink of it? They were probably hidden when we were living there. Ithink it was that that horrified my father so much. When he read it hewas so upset that he gathered up the whole bundle of newspapers andtossed them out of the window; and they blew over the wall, and poorMiss Oman had to rush and pursue them up the court.'

'Do you think he suspects that these remains may be those of youruncle?'

'I think so, though he has said nothing to that effect, and, ofcourse, I have not made any suggestion to him. We always preserve thefiction between ourselves of believing that Uncle John is stillalive.'

'But you don't think he is, do you?'

'No, I'm afraid I don't; and I feel pretty sure that my father doesn'tthink so either, but he doesn't like to admit it to me.'

'Do you happen to remember what bones have been found?'

'No, I don't. I know that an arm was found in the Cuckoo Pits, and Ithink a thigh-bone was dredged up out of a pond near St Mary Cray. ButMiss Oman will be able to tell you all about it, if you areinterested. She will be delighted to meet a kindred spirit,' MissBellingham added, with a smile.

'I don't know that I claim spiritual kinship with a ghoul,' said I;'especially such a very sharp-tempered ghoul.'

'Oh, don't disparage her, Doctor Berkeley!' Miss Bellingham pleaded.'She isn't really bad-tempered; only a little prickly on the surface.I oughtn't to have called her a ghoul; she is just the sweetest, mostaffectionate, most unselfish little angelic human hedgehog that youcould find if you travelled the wide world through. Do you know thatshe has been working her fingers to the bone making an old dress ofmine presentable because she is so anxious that I shall look nice atyour little supper party.'

'You are sure to do that, in any case,' I said; 'but I withdraw myremark as to her temper unreservedly. And I really didn't mean it, youknow; I have always liked the little lady.'

'That's right; and now won't you come in and have a few minutes' chatwith my father? We are quite early in spite of the short cuts.'

I accepted readily, and the more so inasmuch as I wanted a few wordswith Miss Oman on the subject of catering and did not want to discussit before my friends. Accordingly I went and gossiped with Mr.Bellingham, chiefly about the work we had done at the Museum, until itwas time for me to return to the surgery.

Having taken my leave, I walked down the stairs with reflectiveslowness and as much creaking of my boots as I could manage; with theresult, hopefully anticipated, that as I approached the door of MissOman's room it opened and the lady's head protruded.

'I'd change my cobbler if I were you,' she said.

I thought of the 'angelic human hedgehog', and nearly sniggered in herface.

'You are a very flippant young man,' she said severely. Whereat Igrinned, and she regarded me silently with a baleful glare. Suddenly Iremembered my mission and became serious and sober.

'Miss Oman,' I said, 'I very much want to take your advice on a matterof some importance--to me, at least.' (That ought to fetch her, Ithought. The 'advice fly'--strangely neglected by Izaak Walton--isguaranteed to kill in any weather.) And it did fetch her. She rose ina flash and gorged it, cock's feathers, worsted body and all.

'What is it about?' she asked eagerly. 'But don't stand out here whereeverybody can hear but me. Come in and sit down.'

Now I didn't want to discuss the matter here, and, besides, there wasnot time. I therefore assumed an air of mystery.

'I can't, Miss Oman. I'm due at the surgery now. But if you should bepassing and should have a few minutes to spare, I should be greatlyobliged if you would look in. I really don't quite know how to act.'

'No, I expect not. Men very seldom do. But you're better than most,for you know when you are in difficulties and have the sense toconsult a woman. But what is it about? Perhaps I might be thinking itover.'

'Well, you know,' I began evasively, 'it's a simple matter, but Ican't very well--no, by Jove!' I added, looking at my watch, 'I mustrun, or I shall keep the multitude waiting.' And with this I bustledaway, leaving her literally dancing with curiosity.

CHAPTER IX. THE SPHINX OF LINCOLN'S INN

AT the age of twenty-six one cannot claim to have attained to theposition of a person of experience. Nevertheless, the knowledge ofhuman nature accumulated in that brief period sufficed to make me feelconfident that, at some time during the evening, I should receive avisit from Miss Oman. And circumstances justified my confidence; forthe clock yet stood at two minutes to seven when a premonitory tap atthe surgery door heralded her arrival.

'I happened to be passing,' she explained, and I forbore to smile atthe coincidence, 'so I thought I might as well drop in and hear whatyou wanted to ask me about.'

She seated herself in the patients' chair and laying a bundle ofnewspapers on the table, glared at me expectantly.

'Thank you, Miss Oman,' said I. 'It is very good of you to look in onme. I am ashamed to give you all this trouble about such a triflingmatter.'

She rapped her knuckles impatiently on the table.

'Never mind about the trouble,' she exclaimed tartly. 'What--is--it--that--you--want--to--ask--me about?'

I stated my difficulties in respect of the supper-party, and, as Iproceeded, an expression of disgust and disappointment spread over hercountenance.

'I don't see why you need have been so mysterious about it,' she saidglumly.

'I didn't mean to be mysterious; I was only anxious not to make a messof the affair. It's all very fine to assume a lofty scorn of thepleasures of the table, but there is great virtue in a really goodfeed, especially when low-living and high-thinking have been the orderof the day.'

'Coarsely put,' said Miss Oman, 'but perfectly true.'

'Very well. Now, if I leave the management to Mrs. Gummer, she willprobably provide a tepid Irish stew with flakes of congealed fat onit, and a plastic suet-pudding or something of that kind, and turn thehouse upside down in getting it ready. So I thought of having a coldspread and getting the things from outside. But I don't want it tolook as if I had been making enormous preparations.'

'They won't think the things came down from heaven,' said Miss Oman.

'No, I suppose they won't. But you know what I mean. Now, where do youadvise me to go for the raw materials of conviviality?'

Miss Oman reflected. 'You had better let me do your shopping andmanage the whole business,' was her final verdict.

This was precisely what I wanted, and I accepted thankfully,regardless of the feelings of Mrs. Gummer. I handed her two pounds,and, after some protests at my extravagance, she bestowed them in herpurse; a process that occupied time, since that receptacle, besidesbeing a sort of miniature Record Office of frayed and time-stainedbills, already bulged with a lading of draper's samples, ends of tape,a card of linen buttons, another of hooks and eyes, a lump of beeswax,a rat-eaten stump of lead-pencil, and other trifles that I haveforgotten. As she closed the purse at the imminent risk of wrenchingoff its fastenings she looked at me severely and pursed her lips.

'You're a very plausible young man,' she remarked.

'What makes you say that?' I asked.

'Philandering about museums,' she continued, 'with handsome youngladies on the pretence of work. Work, indeed! Oh, I heard her tellingher father about it. She thinks you were perfectly enthralled by themummies and dried cats and chunks of stone and all the other trash.She doesn't know what humbugs men are.'

'Really, Miss Oman--' I began.

'Oh, don't talk to me!' she snapped. 'I can see it all. You can'timpose upon me. I can see you staring into those glass cases, eggingher on to talk and listening open-mouthed and bulging-eyed and sittingat her feet--now, didn't you?'

'I don't know about sitting at her feet,' I said, 'though it mighteasily have come to that with those infernal slippery floors; but Ihad a very jolly time, and I mean to go again if I can. MissBellingham is the cleverest and most accomplished woman I have everspoken to.'

This was a poser for Miss Oman, whose admiration and loyalty, I knew,were only equalled by my own. She would have liked to contradict me,but the thing was impossible. To cover her defeat she snatched up thebundle of newspapers and began to open them out.

'What sort of stuff is "hibernation"?' she demanded suddenly.

'Hibernation!' I exclaimed.

'Yes. They found a patch of it on a bone that was discovered in a pondat St Mary Cray, and a similar patch on one that was found at someother place in Essex. Now, I want to know what "hibernation" is.'

'You must mean "eburnation,"' I said, after a moment's reflection.

'The newspapers say "hibernation," and I suppose they know what theyare talking about. If you don't know what it is, don't be ashamed tosay so.'

'Well, then, I don't.'

'In that case you had better read the papers and find out,' she said,a little illogically. And then: 'Are you fond of murders? I am,awfully.'

'What a shocking little ghoul you must be!' I exclaimed.

She stuck out her chin at me. I'll trouble you,' she said, 'to be alittle more respectful in your language. Do you realise that I am oldenough to be your mother?'

'Impossible!' I ejaculated.

'Fact,' said Miss Oman.

'Well, anyhow,' said I, 'age is not the only qualification. Andbesides, you are too late for the billet. The vacancy's filled.'

Miss Oman slapped the papers down on the table and rose abruptly.

'You had better read the papers and see if you can learn a littlesense,' she said severely as she turned to go. 'Oh, and don't forgetthe finger!' she added eagerly. 'That is really thrilling.'

'The finger?' I repeated.

'Yes. They found a hand with one missing. The police think it is animportant clue. I don't know what they mean; but you read the accountand tell me what you think.'

With this parting injunction she bustled out through the surgery, andI followed to bid her a ceremonious adieu on the doorstep. I watchedher little figure tripping with quick, bird-like steps down FetterLane, and was about to turn back into the surgery when my attentionwas attracted by the evolutions of an elderly gentleman on theopposite side of the street. He was a somewhat peculiar-looking man,tall, gaunt, and bony, and the way in which he carried his headsuggested to the medical mind a pronounced degree of near sight and apair of deep spectacle glasses. Suddenly he espied me and crossed theroad with his chin thrust forward and a pair of keen blue eyesdirected at me through the centres of his spectacles.

'I wonder if you can and will help me,' said he, with a courteoussalute. 'I wish to call on an acquaintance, and I have forgotten hisaddress. It is in some court, but the name of that court has escapedme for the moment. My friend's name is Bellingham. I suppose you don'tchance to know it? Doctors know a great many people, as a rule.'

'Do you mean Mr. Godfrey Bellingham?'

'Ah! Then you do know him. I have not consulted the oracle in vain. Heis a patient of yours, no doubt?'

'A patient and personal friend. His address is Forty-nine Nevill'sCourt.'

'Thank you, thank you. Oh, and as you are a friend, perhaps you caninform me as to the customs of the household. I am not expected, and Ido not wish to make an untimely visit. What are Mr. Bellingham'shabits as to his evening meal? Would this be a convenient time tocall?'

'I generally make my evening visits a little later than this--sayabout half-past eight; they have finished their meal by then.'

'Ah! Half-past eight, then? Then I suppose I had better take a walkuntil that time. I don't want to disturb them.'

'Would you care to come in and smoke a cigar until it is time to makeyour call? If you would, I could walk over with you and show you thehouse.'

'That is very kind of you,' said my new acquaintance, with aninquisitive glance at me through his spectacles. 'I think I shouldlike to sit down. It's a dull affair, mooning about the streets, andthere isn't time to go back to my chambers--in Lincoln's Inn.'

'I wonder,' said I, as I ushered him into the room lately vacated byMiss Oman, 'if you happen to be Mr. Jellicoe?'

He turned his spectacles full on me with a keen, suspicious glance.'What makes you think I am Mr. Jellicoe?' he asked.

'Oh, only that you live in Lincoln's Inn.'

'Ha! I see. I live in Lincoln's Inn; Mr. Jellicoe lives in Lincoln'sInn; therefore I am Mr. Jellicoe. Ha! ha! Bad logic, but a correctconclusion. Yes, I am Mr. Jellicoe. What do you know about me?'

'Mighty little, excepting that you were the late John Bellingham's manof business.'

'The "late John Bellingham," hey! How do you know he is the late JohnBellingham?'

'As a matter of fact, I don't; only I rather understood that that wasyour own belief.'

'You understood! Now from whom did you "understand" that? From GodfreyBellingham? H'm! And how did he know what I believe? I never told him.It is a very unsafe thing, my dear sir, to expound another man'sbeliefs.'

'Undeniable truths often are not,' he retorted. 'They are apt to beextremely general. In fact, I would affirm that the certainty of thetruth of a given proposition is directly proportional to itsgenerality.'

'I suppose that is so,' said I.

'Undoubtedly. Take an instance from your own profession. Given amillion normal human beings under twenty, and you can say withcertainty that a majority of them will die before reaching a certainage, that they will die in certain circumstances and of certaindiseases. Then take a single unit from that million, and what can youpredict concerning him? Nothing. He may die to-morrow; he may live tobe a couple of hundred. He may die of a cold in the head or a cutfinger, or from falling off the cross of St Paul's. In a particularcase you can predict nothing.'

'That is perfectly true,' said I. And then realising that I had beenled away from the topic of John Bellingham, I ventured to return toit.

'That was a very mysterious affair--the disappearance of JohnBellingham, I mean.'

'Why mysterious?' asked Mr. Jellicoe. 'Men disappear from time totime, and when they reappear, the explanations that they give (whenthey give any) seem more or less adequate.'

'But the circumstances were surely rather mysterious.'

'What circumstances?' asked Mr. Jellicoe.

'I mean the way in which he vanished from Mr. Hurst's house.'

'In what way did he vanish from it?'

'Well, of course, I don't know.'

'Precisely. Neither do I. Therefore I can't say whether that way was amysterious one or not.'

'It is not even certain that he did leave it,' I remarked, ratherrecklessly.

'Exactly,' said Mr. Jellicoe. 'And if he did not, he is there still.And if he is there still, he has not disappeared--in the senseunderstood. And if he has not disappeared, there is no mystery.'

I laughed heartily, but Mr. Jellicoe preserved a wooden solemnity andcontinued to examine me through his spectacles (which I, in my turn,inspected and estimated at about minus five dioptres). There wassomething highly diverting about this grim lawyer, with his drycontentiousness and almost farcical caution. His ostentatious reserveencouraged me to ply him with fresh questions, the more indiscreet thebetter.

'I suppose,' said I, 'that, under these circumstances, you wouldhardly favour Mr. Hurst's proposal to apply for permission to presumedeath?'

'Under what circumstances?' he inquired.

'I was referring to the doubt you have expressed as to whether JohnBellingham is, after all, really dead.'

'My dear sir,' said he, 'I fail to see your point. If it were certainthat the man was alive, it would be impossible to presume that he wasdead; and if it were certain that he was dead, presumption of deathwould still be impossible. You do not presume a certainty. Theuncertainty is of the essence of the transaction.'

'But,' I persisted, 'if you really believe that he may be alive, Ishould hardly have thought that you would take the responsibility ofpresuming his death and dispersing his property.'

'I don't,' said Mr. Jellicoe. 'I take no responsibility. I act inaccordance with the decision of the Court and have no choice in thematter.'

'But the Court may decide that he is dead and he may nevertheless bealive.'

'Not at all. If the Court decides that he is presumably dead, then heis presumably dead. As a mere irrelevant, physical circumstance hemay, it is true, be alive. But legally speaking, and for testamentarypurposes, he is dead. You fail to perceive the distinction, no doubt?'

'I am afraid I do,' I admitted.

'Yes; the members of your profession usually do. That is what makesthem such bad witnesses in a court of law. The scientific outlook isradically different from the legal. The man of science relies on hisown knowledge and observation and judgment, and disregards testimony.A man comes to you and tells you he is blind in one eye. Do you accepthis statement? Not in the least. You proceed to test his eyesight withsome infernal apparatus of coloured glasses, and you find that he cansee perfectly well with both eyes. Then you decide that he is notblind in one eye; that is to say, you reject his testimony in favourof facts of your own ascertaining.'

'But surely that is the rational method of coming to a conclusion?'

'In science, no doubt. Not in law. A court of law must decideaccording to the evidence which is before it; and that evidence is ofthe nature of sworn testimony. If a witness is prepared to swear thatblack is white and no evidence to the contrary is offered, theevidence before the Court is that black is white, and the Court mustdecide accordingly. The judge and the jury may think otherwise--theymay even have private knowledge to the contrary--but they have todecide according to the evidence.'

'Do you mean to say that a judge would be justified in giving adecision which he knew to be contrary to the facts? Or that he mightsentence a man whom he knew to be innocent?'

'Certainly. It has been done. There is a case of a judge who sentenceda man to death and allowed the execution to take place,notwithstanding that he--the judge--had actually seen the murdercommitted by another man. But that was carrying correctness ofprocedure to the verge of pedantry.'

'It was, with a vengeance,' I agreed. 'But to return to the case ofJohn Bellingham. Supposing that after the Court has decided that he isdead he should return alive? What then?'

'Ah! It would then be his turn to make an application, and the Court,having fresh evidence laid before it, would probably decide that hewas alive.'

'And meantime his property would have been dispersed?'

'Probably. But you will observe that the presumption of death wouldhave arisen out of his own proceedings. If a man acts in such a way asto create a belief that he is dead, he must put up with theconsequences.'

'Yes, that is reasonable enough,' said I. And then, after a pause, Iasked: 'Is there any immediate likelihood of proceedings of the kindbeing commenced?'

'I understood from what you said just now that Mr. Hurst wascontemplating some action of the kind. No doubt you had yourinformation from a reliable quarter.' This answer Mr. Jellicoedelivered without moving a muscle, regarding me with the fixity of aspectacled figurehead.

I smiled feebly. The operation of pumping Mr. Jellicoe was rather likethe sport of boxing with a porcupine, being chiefly remarkable as ademonstration of the power of passive resistance. I determined,however, to make one more effort, rather, I think, for the pleasure ofwitnessing his defensive manoeuvres than with the expectation ofgetting anything out of him. I accordingly 'opened out' on the subjectof the 'remains.'

'Have you been following these remarkable discoveries of human bonesthat have been appearing in the papers?' I asked.

He looked at me stonily for some moments, and then replied:

'Human bones are rather more within your province than mine, but, nowthat you mention it, I think I recall having read of some suchdiscoveries. They were disconnected bones, I believe.'

'Yes; evidently parts of a dismembered body.'

'So I should suppose. No, I have not followed the accounts. As we geton in life our interests tend to settle into grooves, and my groove ischiefly connected with conveyancing. These discoveries would be ofmore interest to a criminal lawyer.'

'I thought you might, perhaps, have connected them with thedisappearance of your client?'

'Why should I? What could be the nature of the connection?'

'Well,' I said, 'these are the bones of a man--'

'Yes; and my client was a man with bones. That is a connection,certainly, though not a very specific or distinctive one. But perhapsyou had something more particular in your mind?'

'I had,' I replied. 'The fact that some of the bones were actuallyfound on land belonging to your client seemed to me rathersignificant.'

'Did it, indeed?' said Mr. Jellicoe. He reflected for a few moments,gazing steadily at me the while, and then continued: 'In that I amunable to follow you. It would have seemed to me that the finding ofhuman remains upon a certain piece of land might conceivably throw aprima fade suspicion upon the owner or occupant of the land as beingthe person who deposited them. But the case that you suggest is theone case in which this would be impossible. A man cannot deposit hisown dismembered remains.'

'No, of course not. I was not suggesting that he deposited themhimself, but merely that the fact of their being deposited on hisland, in a way, connected these remains with him.'

'Again,' said Mr. Jellicoe, 'I fail to follow you, unless you aresuggesting that it is customary for murderers who mutilate bodies tobe punctilious in depositing the dismembered remains upon landbelonging to their victims. In which case I am sceptical as to yourfacts. I am not aware of the existence of any such custom. Moreover,it appears that only a portion of the body was deposited on Mr.Bellingham's land, the remaining portions having been scatteredbroadcast over a wide area. How does that agree with your suggestion?'

'It doesn't, of course,' I admitted. 'But there is another fact that Ithink you will admit to be more significant. The first remains thatwere discovered were found at Sidcup. Now, Sidcup is close to Eltham;and Eltham is the place where Mr. Bellingham was last seen alive.'

'And what is the significance of this? Why do you connect the remainswith one locality rather than the various other localities in whichother portions of the body were found?'

'Well,' I replied, rather gravelled by this very pertinent question,'the appearances seem to suggest that the person who deposited theseremains started from the neighbourhood of Eltham, where the missingman was last seen.'

Mr. Jellicoe shook his head. 'You appear,' said he, 'to be confusingthe order of deposition with the order of discovery. What evidence isthere that the remains found at Sidcup were deposited before thosefound elsewhere?'

'I don't know that there is any,' I admitted.

'Then,' said he, 'I don't see how you support your suggestion that theperson started from the neighbourhood of Eltham.'

On consideration, I had to admit that I had nothing to offer insupport of my theory; and having thus shot my last arrow in this veryunequal contest, I thought it time to change the subject.

'I called in at the British Museum the other day,' said I, 'and had alook at Mr. Bellingham's last gift to the nation. The things are verywell shown in that central case.'

'Yes. I was very pleased with the position they have given to theexhibit, and so would my poor old friend have been. I wished, as Ilooked at the case, that he could have seen it. But perhaps he may,after all.'

'I am sure I hope he will,' said I, with more sincerity, perhaps, thanthe lawyer gave me credit for. For the return of John Bellingham wouldmost effectually have cut the Gordian knot of my friend Godfrey'sdifficulties. 'You are a good deal interested in Egyptology yourself,aren't you?' I added.

'Greatly interested,' replied Mr. Jellicoe, with more animation than Ihad thought possible in his wooden face. 'It is a fascinating subject,the study of this venerable civilisation, extending back to thechildhood of the human race, preserved for ever for our instruction inits own unchanging monuments like a fly in a block of amber.Everything connected with Egypt is full of an impressive solemnity. Afeeling of permanence, of stability, defying time and change, pervadesit. The place, the people, and the monuments alike breathe ofeternity.'

I was mightily surprised at this rhetorical outburst on the part ofthis dry, taciturn lawyer. But I liked him the better for the touch ofenthusiasm that made him human, and determined to keep him astride ofhis hobby.

'Yet,' said I, 'the people must have changed in the course ofcenturies.'

'Yes, that is so. The people who fought against Cambyses were not therace who marched into Egypt five thousand years before--the dynasticpeople whose portraits we see on the early monuments. In those fiftycenturies the blood of Hyksos and Syrians and Ethiopians and Hittites,and who can say how many more races, must have mingled with that ofthe old Egyptians. But still the national life went on without abreak; the old culture leavened the new peoples, and the immigrantstrangers ended by becoming Egyptians. It is a wonderful phenomenon.Looking back on it from our own time, it seems more like a geologicalperiod than the life history of a single nation. Are you at allinterested in the subject?'

'Yes, decidedly, though I am completely ignorant of it. The fact isthat my interest is of quite recent growth. It is only of late that Ihave been sensible of the glamour of things Egyptian.'

'Since you made Miss Bellingham's acquaintance, perhaps?' suggestedMr. Jellicoe, himself as unchanging in aspect as an Egyptian effigy.

I suppose I must have reddened--I certainly resented the remark--forhe continued in the same even tone: 'I made the suggestion because Iknow that she takes an intelligent interest in the subject and is, infact, quite well informed on it.'

'Yes; she seems to know a great deal about the antiquities of Egypt,and I may as well admit that your surmise was correct. It was she whoshowed me her uncle's collection.'

'So I had supposed,' said Mr. Jellicoe. 'And a very instructivecollection it is, in a popular sense; very suitable for exhibition ina public museum, though there is nothing in it of unusual interest tothe expert. The tomb furniture is excellent of its kind and thecartonnage case of the mummy is well made and rather finelydecorated.'

'Yes, I thought it quite handsome. But can you explain to me why,after taking all that trouble to decorate it, they should havedisfigured it with those great smears of bitumen?'

'Ah!' said Mr. Jellicoe, 'that is quite an interesting question. It isnot unusual to find mummy cases smeared with bitumen; there is a mummyof a priestess in the next gallery which is completely coated withbitumen except the gilded face. Now, this bitumen was put on for apurpose--for the purpose of obliterating the inscriptions and thusconcealing the identity of the deceased from the robbers anddesecrators of tombs. And there is the oddity of this mummy ofSebekhotep. Evidently there was an intention of obliterating theinscriptions. The whole of the back is covered thickly with bitumen,and so are the feet. Then the workers seem to have changed their mindsand left the inscriptions and decoration untouched. Why they intendedto cover it, and why, having commenced, they left it partially coveredonly, is a mystery. The mummy was found in its original tomb and quiteundisturbed, so far as tomb-robbers are concerned. Poor Bellingham wasgreatly puzzled as to what the explanation could be.'

'Speaking of bitumen,' said I, 'reminds me of a question that hasoccurred to me. You know that this substance has been used a good dealby modern painters and that it has a very dangerous peculiarity; Imean its tendency to liquefy, without any obvious reason, long afterit has dried.'

'Yes, I know. Isn't there some story about a picture of Reynolds' inwhich bitumen had been used? A portrait of a lady, I think. Thebitumen softened, and one of the lady's eyes slipped down on to hercheek; and they had to hang the portrait upside down and keep it warmuntil the eye slipped back again into its place. But what was yourquestion?'

'I was wondering whether the bitumen used by the Egyptian artists hasever been known to soften after this great lapse of time.'

'Yes, I think it has. I have heard of instances in which the bitumencoatings have softened under certain circumstances and become quite"tacky". But, bless my soul! here am I gossiping with you and wastingyour time, and it is nearly a quarter to nine!'

My guest rose hastily, and I, with many apologies for having detainedhim, proceeded to fulfil my promise to guide him to his destination.As we sallied forth together the glamour of Egypt faded by degrees,and when he shook my hand stiffly at the gate of the Bellinghams'house, all his vivacity and enthusiasm had vanished, leaving thetaciturn lawyer, dry, uncommunicative, and not a little suspicious.

CHAPTER X. THE NEW ALLIANCE

THE 'Great Lexicographer'--tutelary deity of my adopted habitat--hashanded down to shuddering posterity a definition of the act of eatingwhich might have been framed by a dyspeptic ghoul, 'Eat: to devourwith the mouth.' It is a shocking view to take of so genial afunction: cynical, indelicate, and finally unforgivable by reason ofits very accuracy. For, after all, that is what eating amounts to, ifone must needs express it with such crude brutality. But if 'theingestion of alimentary substances'--to ring a modern change upon theolder formula--is in itself a process material even unto carnality, itis undeniable that it forms a highly agreeable accompaniment to morepsychic manifestations.

And so, as the lamplight, reinforced by accessory candles, falls onthe little first-floor room looking on Fetter Lane--only now thecurtains are drawn--the conversation is not the less friendly andbright for a running accompaniment executed with knives and forks, forclink of goblet, and jovial gurgle of wine-flask. On the contrary, toone of us, at least--to wit, Godfrey Bellingham--the occasion is oneof uncommon festivity, and his boyish enjoyment of the simple feastmakes pathetic suggestions of hard times, faced uncomplainingly, butkeenly felt nevertheless.

The talk flitted from topic to topic, mainly concerning itself withmatters artistic, and never for one moment approaching the criticalsubject of John Bellingham's will. From the stepped pyramid of Sakkarawith its encaustic tiles to mediaeval church floors; from Elizabethanwoodwork to Mycenaean pottery, and thence to the industrial arts ofthe Stone age and the civilisation of the Aztecs, began to suspectthat my two legal friends were so carried away by the interest of theconversation that they had forgotten the secret purpose of themeeting, for the dessert had been placed on the table (by Mrs. Gummerwith the manner of a bereaved dependant dispensing funeral bakemeats),and still no reference had been made to the 'case'. But it seemed thatThorndyke was but playing a waiting game; was only allowing theintimacy to ripen while he watched for the opportunity. And thatopportunity came, even as Mrs. Gummer vanished spectrally with a trayof plates and glasses.

'So you had a visitor last night, Doctor,' said Mr. Bellingham. 'Imean my friend Jellicoe. He told us he had seen you, and mightycurious he was about you. I have never known Jellicoe to be soinquisitive before. What did you think of him?'

'A quaint old cock. I found him highly amusing. We entertained oneanother for quite a long time with questions and crooked answers; Iaffecting eager curiosity, he replying with a defensive attitude ofuniversal ignorance. It was a most diverting encounter.'

'He needn't have been so close,' Miss Bellingham remarked, 'seeingthat all the world will be regaled with our affairs before long.'

'They are proposing to take the case into Court, then?' saidThorndyke.

'Yes,' said Mr. Bellingham. 'Jellicoe came to tell me that my cousin,Hurst, has instructed his solicitors to make the application and toinvite me to join him. Actually he came to deliver an ultimatum fromHurst--but I mustn't disturb the harmony of this festive gatheringwith litigious discords.'

'Now, why mustn't you?' asked Thorndyke. 'Why is a subject in which weare all keenly interested to be taboo? You don't mind telling us aboutit, do you?'

'No, of course not. But what do you think of a man who buttonholes adoctor at a dinner-party to retail a list of ailments?'

'It depends on what his ailments are,' replied Thorndyke. 'If he is achronic dyspeptic and wishes to expound the virtues of DoctorSnaffler's Purple Pills for Pimply People, he is merely a bore. But ifhe chances to suffer from some rare and choice disease, such asTrypanosomiasis or Acromegaly, the doctor will be delighted tolisten.'

'Then are we to understand,' Miss Bellingham asked, 'that we are rareand choice products, in a legal sense?'

'Undoubtedly,' replied Thorndyke. 'The case of John Bellingham is, inmany respects, unique. It will be followed with the deepest interestby the profession at large, and especially by medical jurists.'

'How gratifying that should be to us!' said Miss Bellingham. 'We mayeven attain undying fame in textbooks and treatises; and yet we arenot so very much puffed up with our importance.'

'No,' said her father; 'we could do without the fame quite well, andso, I think, could Hurst. Did Berkeley tell you of the proposal thathe made?'

'Yes,' said Thorndyke; 'and I gather from what you say that he hasrepeated it.'

'Yes. He sent Jellicoe to give me another chance, and I was tempted totake it; but my daughter was strongly against any compromise, andprobably she is right. At any rate, she is more concerned than I am.'

'What view did Mr. Jellicoe take?' Thorndyke asked.

'Oh, he was very cautious and reserved, but he didn't disguise hisfeeling that I should be wise to take a certainty in lieu of a veryproblematical fortune. He would certainly like me to agree, for henaturally wishes to get the affair settled and pocket his legacy.'

'And have you definitely refused?'

'Yes; quite definitely. So Hurst will apply for permission to presumedeath and prove the will, and Jellicoe will support him; he says hehas no choice.'

'And you?'

'I suppose I shall oppose the application, though I don't quite knowon what grounds.'

'Before you take definite steps,' said Thorndyke, 'you ought to givethe matter very careful consideration. I take it that you have verylittle doubt that your brother is dead. And if he is dead, any benefitthat you may receive under the will must be conditional on theprevious presumption or proof of death. But perhaps you have takenadvice?'

'No, I have not. As our friend the Doctor has probably told you, mymeans--or rather, the lack of them--do not admit of my gettingprofessional advice. Hence my delicacy about discussing the case withyou.'

'Then do you propose to conduct your case in person?'

'Yes; if it is necessary for me to appear in Court, as I suppose itwill be, if I oppose the application.'

Thorndyke reflected for a few moments and then said gravely:

'You had much better not appear in person to conduct your case, Mr.Bellingham, for several reasons. To begin with, Mr. Hurst is sure tobe represented by a capable counsel, and you will find yourself quiteunable to meet the sudden exigencies of a contest in Court. You willbe out-maneuvered. Then there is the judge to be considered.'

'But surely one can rely on the judge dealing fairly with a man who isunable to afford a solicitor and counsel?'

'Undoubtedly, as a rule, a judge will give an unrepresented litigantevery assistance and consideration. English judges in general arehigh-minded men with a deep sense of their great responsibilities. Butyou cannot afford to take any chances. You must consider theexceptions. A judge has been a counsel, and he may carry to the benchsome of the professional prejudices of the bar. Indeed, if youconsider the absurd licence permitted to counsel in their treatment ofwitnesses, and the hostile attitude adopted by some judges towardsmedical and other scientific men who have to give their evidence, youwill see that the judicial mind is not always quite as judicial as onewould wish, especially when the privileges and immunities of theprofession are concerned. Now, your appearance in person to conductyour case must unavoidably, cause some inconvenience to the Court.Your ignorance of procedure and legal details must occasion somedelay; and if the judge should happen to be an irritable man he mightresent the inconvenience and delay. I don't say that would affect hisdecision--I don't think it would--but I am sure it would be wise toavoid giving offence to the judge. And, above all, it is mostdesirable to be able to detect and reply to any manoeuvres on the partof the opposing counsel, which you certainly would not be able to do.'

'This is excellent advice, Doctor Thorndyke,' said Bellingham, with agrim smile; 'but I'm afraid I shall have to take my chance.'

'Not necessarily,' said Thorndyke. 'I am going to make a littleproposal, which I will ask you to consider without prejudice as amutual accommodation. You see, your case is one of exceptionalinterest--it will become a textbook case, as Miss Bellinghamprophesied; and, since it lies within my speciality, it will benecessary for me to follow it in the closest detail. Now, it would bemuch more satisfactory for me to study it from within than fromwithout, to say nothing of the credit which would accrue to me if Ishould be able to conduct it to a successful issue. I am thereforegoing to ask you to put your case in my hands and let me see what canbe done with it. I know this is an unusual course for a professionalman to take, but I think it is not improper under the circumstances.'

Mr. Bellingham pondered in silence for a few moments, and then, aftera glance at his daughter, began rather hesitatingly: 'It's verygenerous of you, Doctor Thorndyke--'

Mr. Bellingham laughed uneasily and again glanced at his daughter,who, however, pursued her occupation of peeling a pear with calmdeliberation and without lifting her eyes. Getting no help from her heasked: 'Do you think that there is any possibility whatever of asuccessful issue?'

'Yes, a remote possibility--very remote, I fear, as things look atpresent; but if I thought the case absolutely hopeless I should adviseyou to stand aside and let events take their course.'

'Supposing the case should come to a favourable termination, would youallow me to settle your fees in the ordinary way?'

'If the choice lay with me,' replied Thorndyke, 'I should say "yes"with pleasure. But it does not. The attitude of the profession is verydefinitely unfavourable to "speculative" practice. You may rememberthe well-known firm of Dodson and Fogg, who gained thereby muchprofit, but little credit. But why discuss contingencies of this kind?If I bring your case to a successful issue I shall have done very wellfor myself. We shall have benefited one another mutually. Come now,Miss Bellingham, I appeal to you. We have eaten salt together, to saynothing of pigeon pie and other cakes. Won't you back me up, and atthe same time do a kindness to Doctor Berkeley?'

'Why, is Doctor Berkeley interested in our decision?'

'Certainly he is, as you will appreciate when I tell you that heactually tried to bribe me secretly out of his own pocket.'

'Did you?' she asked, looking at me with an expression that ratheralarmed me.

'Well, not exactly,' I replied, mighty hot and uncomfortable, andwishing Thorndyke at the devil with his confidences. 'I merelymentioned that the--the--solicitor's costs, you know, and that sort ofthing--but you needn't jump on me, Miss Bellingham; Doctor Thorndykedid all that was necessary in that way.'

She continued to look at me thoughtfully as I stammered out myexcuses, and then said: 'I wasn't going to. I was only thinking thatpoverty has its compensations. You are all so very good to us; and,for my part, I should accept Doctor Thorndyke's generous offer mostgratefully, and thank him for making it so easy for us.'

'Very well, my dear,' said Mr. Bellingham; 'we will enjoy thesweets ofpoverty, as you say--we have sampled the other kind of I thing prettyfreely--and do ourselves the pleasure of accepting a | great kindness,most delicately offered.'

'Thank you,' said Thorndyke. 'You have justified my faith in you, MissBellingham, and in the power of Dr. Berkeley's salt. I understand thatyou place your affairs in my hands?'

'Entirely and thankfully,' replied Mr. Bellingham. 'Whatever you thinkbest to be done we agree to beforehand.'

'Then,' said I, 'let us drink success to the cause. Port, if youplease, Miss Bellingham; the vintage is not recorded, but it is quitewholesome, and a suitable medium for the sodium chloride offriendship.' I filled her glass, and when the bottle had made itscircuit, we stood up and solemnly pledged the new alliance.

There is just one thing I would say before we dismiss the subject forthe present,' said Thorndyke. 'It is a good thing to keep one's owncounsel. When you get formal notice from Mr. Hurst's solicitors thatproceedings are being commenced, you may refer them to Mr. Marchmontof Gray's Inn, who will nominally act for you. He will actually havenothing to do, but we must preserve the fiction that I am instructedby a solicitor. Meanwhile, and until the case goes into Court, I thinkit very necessary that neither Mr. Jellicoe nor anyone else shouldknow that I am connected with it. We must keep the other side in thedark, if we can.'

'We will be as secret as the grave,' said Mr. Bellingham; 'and, as amatter of fact, it will be quite easy, since it happens, by a curiouscoincidence, that I am already acquainted with Mr. Marchmont. He actedfor Stephen Blackmore, you remember, in that case that you unravelledso wonderfully well. I knew the Blackmores.'

'Did you?' said Thorndyke. 'What a small world it is. And what aremarkable affair that was! The intricacies and cross-issues made itquite absorbingly interesting; and it is noteworthy for me in anotherrespect, for it was one of the first cases in which I was associatedwith Doctor Jervis.'

'Yes, and a mighty useful associate I was,' remarked Jervis, 'though Idid pick up one or two facts by accident. And, by the way, theBlackmore case had certain points in common with your case, Mr.Bellingham. There was a disappearance and a disputed will, and the manwho vanished was a scholar and an antiquarian.'

'Cases in our speciality are apt to have certain generalresemblances,' Thorndyke said; and as he spoke he directed a keenglance at his junior, the significance of which I partly understoodwhen he abruptly changed the subject.

'The newspaper reports of your brother's disappearance, Mr.Bellingham, were remarkably full of detail. There were even plans ofyour house and that of Mr. Hurst. Do you know who supplied theinformation?'

'No, I don't,' replied Mr. Bellingham. 'I know that I didn't. Somenewspaper men came to me for information, but I sent them packing. So,I understand, did Hurst; and as for Jellicoe, you might as well cross-examine an oyster.'

'Well,' said Thorndyke, 'the pressmen have queer methods of getting"copy"; but still, some one must have given them that description ofyour brother and those plans. It would be interesting to know who itwas. However, we don't know; and now let us dismiss these legaltopics, with suitable apologies for having introduced them.'

'And perhaps,' said I, 'we may as well adjourn to what we call thedrawing-room--it is really Barnard's den--and leave the housekeeper towrestle with the debris.'

We migrated to the cheerfully shabby little apartment, and, when Mrs.Gummer had served coffee, with gloomy resignation (as who should say:'If you will drink this sort of stuff I suppose you must, but don'tblame me for the consequences'), I settled Mr. Bellingham in Barnard'sfavourite lop-sided easy chair--the depressed seat of which suggestedits customary use by an elephant of sedentary habits--and opened thediminutive piano.

'I wonder if Miss Bellingham would give us a little music?' I said.

'I wonder if she could?' was the smiling response. 'Do you know,' shecontinued, 'I have not touched a piano for nearly two years? It willbe quite an interesting experiment--to me; but if it fails, you willbe the sufferers. So you must choose.'

'My verdict,' said Mr. Bellingham, 'is fiat experimentum, though Iwon't complete the quotation, as that would seem to disparage DoctorBarnard's piano. But before you begin, Ruth, there is one ratherdisagreeable matter that I want to dispose of, so that I may notdisturb the harmony with it later.'

'Then,' said Mr. Bellingham, 'you have probably met with some accountsof the finding of certain human remains, apparently portions of amutilated body.'

'Yes, I have seen those reports and filed them for future reference.'

'Exactly. Well, now, it can hardly be necessary for me to tell youthat those remains--the mutilated remains of some poor murderedcreature, as there can be no doubt they are--have seemed to have avery dreadful significance for me. You will understand what I mean;and I want to ask you if--if they have made a similar suggestion toyou?'

Thorndyke paused before replying, with his eyes bent thoughtfully onthe floor, and we all looked at him anxiously.

'It's very natural,' he said at length, 'that you should associatethese remains with the mystery of your brother's disappearance. Ishould like to say that you are wrong in doing so, but if I did Ishould be uncandid. There are certain facts that do, undoubtedly, seemto suggest a connection, and, up to the present, there are no definitefacts of a contrary significance.'

Mr. Bellingham sighed deeply and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

'It is a horrible affair!' he said huskily; 'horrible! Would you mind,Doctor Thorndyke, telling us just how the matter stands in youropinion--what the probabilities are, for and against?'

Again Thorndyke reflected awhile, and it seemed to me that he was notvery willing to discuss the subject. However, the question had beenasked pointedly, and eventually he answered:

'At the present stage of the investigation it is not very easy tostate the balance of probabilities. The matter is still quitespeculative. The bones which have been found hitherto (for we aredealing with a skeleton, not with a body) have been exclusively thosewhich are useless for personal identification; which is, in itself, arather curious and striking fact. The general character and dimensionof the bones seem to suggest a middle-aged man of about your brother'sheight, and the date of deposition appears to be in agreement with thedate of his disappearance.'

'Is it known, then, when they were deposited?' asked Mr. Bellingham.

'In the case of those found at Sidcup it seems possible to deduct anapproximate date. The watercress-bed was cleaned out about two yearsago, so they could not have been lying there longer than that; andtheir condition suggests that they could not have been there much lessthan two years, as there is apparently no vestige of the softstructures left. Of course, I am speaking from the newspaper reportsonly; I have no direct knowledge of the matter.'

'Have they found any considerable part of the body yet? I haven't beenreading the papers myself. My little friend, Miss Oman, brought agreat bundle of 'em for me to read, but I couldn't stand it; I pitchedthe whole boiling of 'em out of the window.'

I thought I detected a slight twinkle in Thorndyke's eye, but heanswered quite gravely:

'I think I can give you the particulars from memory, though I won'tguarantee the dates. The original discovery was made, apparently quiteaccidentally, at Sidcup on the fifteenth of July. It consisted of acomplete left arm, minus the third finger and including the bones ofthe shoulder--the shoulder-blade and collar bone. This discovery seemsto have set the local population, especially the juvenile part of it,searching all the ponds and streams of the neighbourhood--'

'Cannibals!' interjected Mr. Bellingham.

'With the result that there was dredged up out of a pond near St MaryCray, in Kent, a right thigh-bone. There is a slight clue to identityin respect of this bone, since the head of it has a small patch of"eburnation"--that is a sort of porcelain-like polish that occurs onthe parts of bones that form a joint when the natural covering ofcartilage is destroyed by disease. It is produced by the unprotectedsurface of the bone grinding against the similarly unprotected surfaceof another.'

'And how,' Mr. Bellingham asked, 'would that help the identification?'

'It would indicate,' Thorndyke replied, 'that the deceased hadprobably suffered from rheumatoid arthritis--what is commonly I knownas rheumatic gout--and he would probably have limped! slightly andcomplained of some pain in the right hip.'

'I'm afraid that doesn't help us very much,' said Mr. Bellingham;'for, you see, John had a pretty pronounced limp from another cause,an old injury to his left ankle; and as to complaining of pain--well,he was a hardy old fellow and not much given to making complaints ofany kind. But don't let me interrupt you.'

'The next discovery,' continued Thorndyke, 'was made near Lee, by thepolice this time. They seem to have developed sudden activity in thematter, and in searching the neighbourhood of West Kent they draggedout of a pond near Lee the bones of a right foot. Now, if it had beenthe left instead of the right we might have a clue, as I understandyour brother had fractured his left ankle, and there might have beensome traces of the injury on the foot itself.'

'Yes,' said Mr. Bellingham. 'I suppose there might. The injury wasdescribed as a Pott's fracture.'

'Exactly. Well, now, after this discovery at Lee it seems that thepolice set on foot a systematic search of all the ponds and smallpieces of water around London, and, on the twenty-third, they found inthe Cuckoo Pits in Epping Forest, not far from Woodford, the bones ofa right arm (including those of the shoulder, as before), which seemto be part of the same body.'

'Yes,' said Mr. Bellingham, 'I heard of that. Quite close to my oldhouse. Horrible! horrible! It gave me the shudders to think of it--tothink that poor old John may have been waylaid and murdered when hewas actually coming to see me. He may even have got into the groundsby the back gate, if it was left unfastened, and been followed inthere and murdered. You remember that a scarab from his watch-chainwas found there? But is it clear that this arm was the fellow of thearm that was found at Sidcup?'

'It seems to agree in character and dimensions,' said Thorndyke, 'andthe agreement is strongly supported by a discovery made two dayslater.'

'What is that?' Mr. Bellingham demanded.

'It is the lower half of a trunk which the police dragged out of arather deep pond on the skirts of the forest at Loughton--Staple'sPond, it is called. The bones found were the pelvis--that is, the twohip-bones--and six vertebrae, or joints of the backbone. Havingdiscovered these, the police dammed the stream and pumped the ponddry, but no other bones were found; which is rather odd, as thereshould have been a pair of ribs belonging to the upper vertebra--thetwelfth dorsal vertebra. It suggests some curious questions as to themethod of dismemberment; but I mustn't go into unpleasant details. Thepoint is that the cavity of the right hip-joint showed a patch ofeburnation corresponding to that on the head of the right thigh-bonethat was found at St Mary Cray. So there can be very little doubt thatthese bones are all part of the same body.'

'I see,' grunted Mr. Bellingham; and he added, after a moment'sthought: 'Now, the question is, Are these bones the remains of mybrother John? What do you say, Doctor Thorndyke?'

'I say that the question cannot be answered on the facts at presentknown to us. It can only be said that they may be, and that some ofthe circumstances suggest that they are. But we can only wait forfurther discoveries. At any moment the police may light upon someportion of the skeleton which will settle the question definitely oneway or the other.'

'I suppose,' said Mr. Bellingham, 'I can't be of any service to you inthe matter of identification?'

'Indeed you can,' said Thorndyke, 'and I was going to ask you toassist me. What I want you to do is this: Write down a fulldescription of your brother, including every detail known to you,together with an account of every illness or injury from which youknow him to have suffered; also the names and, if possible, theaddresses of any doctors, surgeons, or dentists who may have attendedhim at any time. The dentists are particularly important, as theirinformation would be invaluable if the skull belonging to these bonesshould be discovered.'

Mr. Bellingham shuddered.

'It's a shocking idea,' he said, 'but, of course you are right. Youmust have the facts if you are to form an opinion. I will write outwhat you want and send it to you without delay. And now, for God'ssake, let us throw off this nightmare, for a little while, at least!What is there, Ruth, among Doctor Barnard's music that you canmanage?'

Barnard's collection in general inclined to the severely classical,but we disinterred from the heap a few lighter works of an old-fashioned kind, including a volume of Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worte,and with one of these Miss Bellingham made trial of her skill, playingit with excellent taste and quite adequate execution. That, at least,was her father's verdict; for, as to me, I found it the perfection ofhappiness merely to sit and look at her--a state of mind that wouldhave been in no wise disturbed even by 'Silvery Waves' or 'TheMaiden's Prayer'.

Thus with simple, homely music, and conversation always cheerful andsometimes brilliant, slipped away one of the pleasantest evenings ofmy life, and slipped away all too soon. St Dunstan's clock was the flyin the ointment, for it boomed out intrusively the hour of eleven justas my guests were beginning to thoroughly appreciate one another, andthereby carried the sun (with a minor paternal satellite) out of thefirmament of my heaven. For I had, in my professional capacity, givenstrict injunctions that Mr. Bellingham should on no account sit uplate; and now, in my social capacity, I had smilingly to hear 'thedoctor's orders' quoted. It was a scurvy return for all my care.

When Mr. and Miss Bellingham departed, Thorndyke and Jervis would havegone too; but noting my bereaved condition, and being withalcompassionate and tender of heart, they were persuaded to stay awhileand bear me company in a consolatory pipe.

CHAPTER XI. THE EVIDENCE REVIEWED

'SO THE game has opened,' observed Thorndyke, as he struck a match.'The play has begun with a cautious lead off by the other side. Verycautious and not very confident.'

'Why do you say "not very confident"?' I asked.

'Well, it is evident that Hurst--and, I fancy, Jellicoe too--isanxious to buy off Bellingham's opposition, and at a pretty longprice, under the circumstances. And when we consider how very littleBellingham has to offer against the presumption of his brother'sdeath, it looks as if Hurst hadn't much to say on his side.'

'No,' said Jervis, 'he can't hold many trumps or he wouldn't bewilling to pay four hundred a year for his opponent's chances; andthat is just as well, for it seems to me that our own hand is a prettypoor one.'

'We must look through our hand and see what we do hold,' saidThorndyke. 'Our trump card at present--a rather small one, I'mafraid--is the obvious intention of the testator that the bulk of theproperty should go to his brother.'

'I suppose you will begin your inquiries now?' I said.

'We began them some time ago--the day after you brought us the will,in fact. Jervis had been through the registers and has ascertainedthat no interment under the name of John Bellingham has taken placesince the disappearance; which was just what we expected. He has alsodiscovered that some other person has been making similar inquiries;which, again, is what we expected.'

'And your own investigations?'

'Have given negative results for the most part. I found DoctorNorbury, at the British Museum, very friendly and helpful; sofriendly, in fact, that I am thinking whether I may not be able toenlist his help in certain private researches of my own, withreference to the change effected by time in the physical properties ofcertain substances.'

'Oh; you haven't told me about that,' said Jervis.

'No; I haven't really commenced to plan my experiments yet, and theywill probably lead to nothing when I do. It occurred to me that,possibly, in the course of time, certain molecular changes might takeplace in substances such as wood, bone, pottery, stucco, and othercommon materials, and that these changes might alter their power ofconducting or transmitting molecular vibrations. Now, if this shouldturn out to be the case, it would be a fact of considerableimportance, medico-legally and otherwise; for it would be possible todetermine approximately the age of any object of known composition bytesting its reactions to electricity, heat, light and other molecularvibrations. I thought of seeking Doctor Norbury's assistance becausehe can furnish me with materials for experiment of such great age thatthe reactions, if any, should be extremely easy to demonstrate. But toreturn to our case. I learned from him that John Bellingham hadcertain friends in Paris--collectors and museum officials--whom hewas in the habit of visiting for the purpose of study and exchange ofspecimens. I have made inquiries of all these, and none of them hadseen him during his last visit. In fact, I have not yet discoveredanyone who had seen Bellingham in Paris on this occasion. So his visitthere remains a mystery for the present.'

'It doesn't seem to be of much importance, since he undoubtedly cameback,' I remarked; but to this Thorndyke demurred.

'It is impossible to estimate the importance of the unknown,' said he.

'Well, how does the matter stand,' asked Jervis, 'on the evidence thatwe have? John Bellingham disappeared on a certain date. Is thereanything to show what was the manner of his disappearance?'

'The facts in our possession,' said Thorndyke, 'which are mainly thoseset forth in the newspaper report, suggest several alternativepossibilities; and in view of the coming inquiry--for they will, nodoubt, have to be gone into in Court, to some extent--it may be worthwhile to consider them. There are five conceivable hypotheses'--hereThorndyke checked them on his fingers as he proceeded--'First, he maystill be alive. Second, he may have died and been buried withoutidentification. Third, he may have been murdered by some unknownperson. Fourth, he may have been murdered by Hurst and his bodyconcealed. Fifth, he may have been murdered by his brother. Let usexamine these possibilities seriatim.

'First, he may still be alive. If he is, he must either havedisappeared voluntarily, have lost his memory suddenly and not beenidentified, or have been imprisoned--on a false charge or otherwise.Let us take the first case--that of voluntary disappearance.Obviously, its improbability is extreme.'

'Jellicoe doesn't think so,' said I. 'He thinks it quite on the cardsthat John Bellingham is alive. He says that it is not a very unusualthing for a man to disappear for a time.'

'Then why is he applying for a presumption of death?'

'Just what I asked him. He says that it is the correct thing to do;that the entire responsibility rests on the Court.'

'That is all nonsense,' said Thorndyke. 'Jellicoe is the trustee forhis absent client, and, if he thinks that client is alive, it is hisduty to keep the estate intact; and he knows that perfectly well. Wemay take it that Jellicoe is of the same opinion as I am: that JohnBellingham is dead.'

'Still,' I urged, 'men do disappear from time to time, and turn upagain after years of absence.'

'Yes, but for a definite reason. Either they are irresponsiblevagabonds who take this way of shuffling of their responsibilities, orthey are men who have been caught in a net of distastefulcircumstances. For instance, a civil servant or a solicitor or atradesman finds himself bound for life to a locality and an occupationof intolerable monotony. Perhaps he has an ill-tempered wife, whoafter the amiable fashion of a certain type of woman, thinking thather husband is pinned down without a chance of escape, gives a freerein to her temper. The man puts up with it for years, but at last itbecomes unbearable. Then he suddenly disappears; and small blame tohim. But this was not Bellingham's case. He was a wealthy bachelorwith an engrossing interest in life, free to go whither he would andto do whatsoever he wished. Why should he disappear? The thing isincredible.

'As to his having lost his memory and remained unidentified, that,also, is incredible in the case of a man who had visiting-cards andletters in his pocket, whose linen was marked, and who was beinginquired for everywhere by the police. As to his being in prison, wemay dismiss that possibility, inasmuch as a prisoner, both before andafter conviction, would have full opportunity of communicating withhis friends.

'The second possibility, that he may have died suddenly and beenburied without identification, is highly improbable; but, as it isconceivable that the body might have been robbed and the means ofidentification thus lost, it remains as a possibility that has to beconsidered, remote as it is.

'The third hypothesis, that he may have been murdered by some unknownperson, is, under the circumstances, not wildly improbable; but, asthe police were on the lookout and a detailed description of themissing man's person was published in the papers, it would involve thecomplete concealment of the body. But this would exclude the mostprobable form of crime--the casual robbery with violence. It istherefore possible, but highly improbable.

'The fourth hypothesis is that Bellingham was murdered by Hurst. Nowthe one fact which militates against this view is that Hurstapparently had no motive for committing the murder. We are assured byJellicoe that no one but himself knew the contents of the will, and ifthis is so--but mind, we have no evidence that it is so--Hurst wouldhave no reason to suppose that he had anything material to gain by hiscousin's death. Otherwise the hypothesis presents no inherentimprobabilities. The man was last seen alive at Hurst's house. He wasseen to enter it and he was never seen to leave it--we are stilltaking the facts as stated in the newspapers, remember--and it nowappears that he stands to benefit enormously by that man's death.'

'But,' I objected, 'you are forgetting that, directly the man wasmissed Hurst and the servants together searched the entire house.'

'Yes. What did they search for?'

'Why, for Mr. Bellingham, of course.'

'Exactly; for Mr. Bellingham. That is, for a living man. Now how doyou search a house for a living man? You look in all the rooms. Whenyou look in a room if he is there, you see him; if you do not see him,you assume that he is not there. You don't look under the sofa orbehind the piano, you don't pull out large drawers or open cupboards.You just look into the rooms. That is what these people seem to havedone. And they did not see Mr. Bellingham. Mr. Bellingham's corpsemight have been stowed away out of sight in any one of the rooms thatthey looked into.'

'That is a grim thought,' said Jervis; 'but it is perfectly true.There is no evidence that the man was not lying dead in the house atthe very time of the search.'

'But even so,' said I, 'there was the body to be disposed of somehow.Now how could he possibly have got rid of the body without beingobserved?'

'Ah!' said Thorndyke, 'now we are touching on a point of crucialimportance. If anyone should ever write a treatise on the art ofmurder--not an exhibition of literary fireworks like De Quincey's, buta genuine working treatise--he might leave all other technical detailsto take care of themselves if he could describe to me some reallypracticable plan for disposing of the body. That is, and always hasbeen, the great stumbling-block to the murderer: to get rid of thebody. The human body,' he continued, thoughtfully regarding his pipe,just as, in the days of my pupilage, he was wont to regard the black-board chalk, 'is a very remarkable object. It presents a combinationof properties that makes it singularly difficult to concealpermanently. It is bulky and of an awkward shape, it is heavy, it iscompletely incombustible, it is chemically unstable, and itsdecomposition yields great volumes of highly odorous gases, and itnevertheless contains identifiable structures of the highest degree ofpermanence. It is extremely difficult to preserve unchanged, and it isstill more difficult completely to destroy. The essential permanenceof the human body is well known in the classical case of Eugene Aram;but a still more striking instance is that of Sekenen-Ra the Third,one of the last kings of the seventeenth Egyptian dynasty. Here, aftera lapse of four thousand years, it has been possible to determine notonly the cause of death and the manner of its occurrence, but the wayin which the king fell, the nature of the weapon with which the fatalwound was inflicted, and even the position of the assailant. And thepermanence of the body under other conditions is admirably shown inthe case of Doctor Parkman, of Boston, USA, in which identificationwas actually effected by means of remains collected from the ashes ofa furnace.'

'Then we may take it,' said Jervis, 'that the world has not yet seenthe last of John Bellingham.'

'I think we may regard that as almost a certainty,' replied Thorndyke.'The only question--and a very important one--is to when thereappearance may take place. It may be to-morrow or it may becenturies hence, when all the issues involved have been! forgotten.'

'Assuming,' said I, 'for the sake of argument, that Hurst did murderhim and that the body was concealed in the study at the time thesearch was made. How could it have been disposed of? If you had beenin Hurst's place, how would you have gone to work?'

Thorndyke smiled at the bluntness of my question.

'You are asking me for an incriminating statement,' said he,'delivered in the presence of a witness too. But, as a matter of fact,there is no use in speculating a priori', we should have toreconstruct a purely imaginary situation, the circumstances of whichare unknown to us, and we should almost certainly reconstruct itwrong. What we may fairly assume is that no reasonable person, nomatter how immoral, would find himself in the position that yousuggest. Murder is usually a crime of impulse, and the murderer aperson of feeble self-control. Such persons are most unlikely to makeelaborate and ingenious arrangements for the disposal of the bodies oftheir victims. Even the cold-blooded perpetrators of the mostcarefully planned murders appear as I have said, to break down at thispoint. The almost insuperable difficulty of getting rid of the humanbody is not appreciated until the murderer suddenly finds himself faceto face with it.

'In the case you are suggesting, the choice would seem to lie betweenburial on the premises or dismemberment and dispersal of thefragments; and either method would be pretty certain to lead todiscovery.'

'As illustrated by the remains of which you were speaking to Mr.Bellingham,' Jervis remarked.

'No. That was certainly an error of judgment. By the way, I thought itbest to say nothing while you were talking to Bellingham, but Inoticed that, in discussing the possibility of those being the bonesof his brother, you made no comment on the absence of the third ringerof the left hand. I am sure you didn't overlook it, but isn't it apoint of some importance?'

'As to identification? Under the present circumstances, I think not!If there were a man missing who had lost that finger it would, ofcourse, be an important fact. But I have not heard of any such man.Or, again, if there were any evidence that the finger had been removedbefore death, it would be highly important. But there is no suchevidence. It may have been cut off after death, and that is where thereal significance of its absence lies.'

'I don't see quite what you mean,' said Jervis.

'I mean that, if there is no report of any missing man who had lostthat particular finger, the probability is that the finger was removedafter death. And then arises the interesting question of motive. Whyshould it have been removed? It could hardly have become detachedaccidentally. What do you suggest?'

'Well,' said Jervis, 'it might have been a peculiar finger; a finger,for instance, with some characteristic deformity such as an ankylosedjoint, which would be easy to identify.'

'Yes; but that explanation introduces the same difficulty. No personwith a deformed or ankylosed finger has been reported as missing.'

Jervis puckered up his brows, and looked at me.

'I'm hanged if I see any other explanation,' he said. 'Do you,Berkeley?'

I shook my head.

'Don't forget which finger it is that is missing,' said Thorndyke.'The third finger of the left hand.'

'Oh, I see!' said Jervis. 'The ring-finger. You mean that it may havebeen removed for the sake of a ring that wouldn't come off.'

'Yes. It would not be the first instance of the kind. Fingers havebeen severed from dead hands--and even from living ones--for the sakeof rings that were too tight to be drawn off. And the fact that it isthe left hand supports the suggestion; for a ring that wasinconveniently tight would be worn by preference on the left hand, asthat is usually slightly smaller than the right. What is the matter,Berkeley?'

A sudden light had burst upon me, and I suppose my countenancebetrayed the fact.

'I am a confounded fool!' I exclaimed.

'Oh, don't say that,' said Jervis. 'Give your friends a chance.'

'I ought to have seen this long ago and told you about it. JohnBellingham did wear a ring, and it was so tight that, when once he hadgot it on, he could never get it off again.'

'Do you happen to know on which hand he wore it?' Thorndyke asked.

'Yes. It was on the left hand; because Miss Bellingham, who told meabout it, said that he would never have been able to get the ring onat all but for the fact this his left hand was slightly smaller thanhis right.'

'There it is, then,' said Thorndyke. 'With this new fact in ourpossession, the absence of the finger furnishes the starting-point ofsome very curious speculations.'

'As, for instance,' said Jervis.

'Ah, under the circumstances, I must leave you to pursue thosespeculations independently. I am now acting for Mr. Bellingham.'

Jervis grinned and was silent for a while, refilling his pipethoughtfully; but when he had got it alight he resumed.

'To return to the question of the disappearance; you don't consider ithighly improbable that Bellingham might have been murdered by Hurst?'

'Oh, don't imagine I am making an accusation. I am considering thevarious probabilities merely in the abstract. The same reasoningapplies to the Bellinghams. As to whether any of them did commit themurder, that is a question of personal character. I certainly do notsuspect the Bellinghams after having seen them, and with regard toHurst, I know nothing, or at least very little, to his disadvantage.'

'Well,' Thorndyke said, with some hesitation, 'it seems a thoughtunkind to rake up the little details of a man's past, and yet it hasto be done. I have, of course, made the usual routine inquiriesconcerning the parties to this affair, and this is what they havebrought to light:

'Hurst, as you know, is a stockbroker--a man of good position andreputation; but, about ten years ago, he seems to have committed anindiscretion, to put it mildly, which nearly got him into ratherserious difficulties. He appears to have speculated rather heavily andconsiderably beyond his means, for when a sudden spasm of the marketsupset his calculations, it turned out that he had been employing hisclients' capital and securities. For a time it looked as if there wasgoing to be serious trouble; then, quite unexpectedly, he managed toraise the necessary amount in some way and settle all claims. Whencehe got the money has never been discovered to this day, which is acurious circumstance, seeing that the deficiency was rather over fivethousand pounds; but the important fact is that he did get it and thathe paid up all that he owed. So that he was only a potentialdefaulter, so to speak; and discreditable as the affair undoubtedlywas, it does not seem to have any direct bearing on this presentcase.'

'No,' Jervis agreed, 'though it makes one consider his position withmore attention than one would otherwise.'

'Undoubtedly,' said Thorndyke. 'A reckless gambler is a man whoseconduct cannot be relied on. He is subject to vicissitudes of fortunewhich may force him into other kinds of wrong doing. Many anembezzlement has been preceded by an unlucky plunge on the turf.'

'Assuming the responsibility for this disappearance to lie betweenHurst and--and the Bellinghams,' said I, with an uncomfortable gulp asI mentioned the names of my friends, 'to which side does the balanceof probability incline?'

'To the side of Hurst, I should say, without doubt,' repliedThorndyke. 'The case stands thus--on the facts presented to us: Hurstappears to have had no motive for killing the deceased (as we willcall him); but the man was seen to enter the house, was never seen toleave it, and was never again seen alive. Bellingham, on the otherhand, had a motive, as he had believed himself to be the principalbeneficiary under the will. But the deceased was not seen at hishouse, and there is no evidence that he went to the house or to theneighbourhood, excepting the scarab that was found there. But theevidence of the scarab is vitiated by the fact that Hurst was presentwhen it was picked up, and that it was found on a spot over whichHurst had passed only a few minutes previously. Until Hurst iscleared, it seems to me that the presence of the scarab proves nothingagainst the Bellinghams.'

'Then your opinions on the case,' said I, 'are based entirely on thefacts that have been made public.'

'Yes, mainly. I do not necessarily accept those facts just as they arepresented, and I may have certain views of my own on the case. But ifI have, I do not feel in a position to discuss them. For the present,discussion has to be limited to the facts and inferences offered bythe parties concerned.'

'There!' exclaimed Jervis, rising to knock his pipe out, 'that iswhere Thorndyke has you. He lets you think you're in the thick of the"know" until one fine morning you wake up and discover that you haveonly been a gaping outsider; and then you are mightily astonished--andso are the other side, too, for that matter. But we must really be offnow, mustn't we, reverend senior?'

'I suppose we must,' replied Thorndyke; and, as he drew on his gloves,he asked: 'Have you heard from Barnard lately?'

'Oh, yes,' I answered. 'I wrote to him at Smyrna to say that thepractice was flourishing and that I was quite happy and contented, andthat he might stay away as long as he liked. He writes by return thathe will prolong his holiday if an opportunity offers, but will let meknow later.'

'Gad,' said Jervis, 'it was a stroke of luck for Barnard thatBellingham happened to have such a magnificent daughter--there! don'tmind me, old man. You go in and win--she's worth it, isn't she,Thorndyke?'

'Miss Bellingham's a very charming young lady,' replied Thorndyke. 'Iam most favourably impressed by both the father and the daughter, andI only trust that we may be able to be of some service to them.' Withthis sedate little speech Thorndyke shook my hand, and I watched mytwo friends go on their way until their fading shapes were swallowedup in the darkness of Fetter Lane.

CHAPTER XII. A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY

IT was two or three mornings after my little supper party that, as Istood in the consulting-room brushing my hat preparatory to startingon my morning round, Adolphus appeared at the door to announce twogentlemen waiting in the surgery. I told him to bring them in, and amoment later Thorndyke entered, accompanied by Jervis. I noted thatthey looked uncommonly large in that little apartment, especiallyThorndyke, but I had no time to consider this phenomenon, for thelatter, when he had shaken my hand, proceeded at once to explain theobject of their visit.

'We have come to ask a favour, Berkeley,' he said; 'to ask you to dous a very great service in the interests of your friends theBellinghams.'

'You know I shall be delighted,' I said warmly. 'What is it?'

'I will explain. You know--or perhaps you don't--that the police havecollected all the bones that have been discovered and deposited themin the mortuary at Woodford, where they are to be viewed by thecoroner's jury. Now, it has become imperative that I should have moredefinite and reliable information than I can get from the newspapers.The natural thing for me would be to go down and examine them myself,but there are circumstances that make it very desirable that myconnection with the case should not leak out. Consequently, I can't gomyself, and, for the same reason, I can't send Jervis. On the otherhand, as it is now stated pretty openly that the police consider thebones to be almost certainly those of John Bellingham, it would seemperfectly natural that you, as Godfrey Bellingham's doctor, should godown to view them on his behalf.'

'I should like to,' I said. 'I would give anything to go; but how isit to be managed? It would mean a whole day off and leaving thepractice to look after itself.'

'I think it could be managed,' said Thorndyke; 'and the matter isreally important for two reasons. One is that the inquest openstomorrow, and someone certainly ought to be there to watch theproceedings on Godfrey's behalf; and the other is that our client hasreceived notice from Hurst's solicitors that the application will beheard in the Probate Court in a few days.'

'Isn't that rather sudden?' I asked.

'It certainly suggests that there has been a good deal more activitythan we were given to understand. But you see the importance of theaffair. The inquest will be a sort of dress rehearsal for the ProbateCourt, and it is quite essential that we should have a chance ofestimating the management.'

'Yes, I see that. But how are we to manage about the practice?'

'We shall find you a substitute.'

'Through a medical agent?'

'Yes,' said Jervis. 'Percival will find us a man; in fact, he has doneit. I saw him this morning; he has a man who is waiting up in town tonegotiate for the purchase of a practice and who would do the job fora couple of guineas. Quite a reliable man. Only say the word, and Iwill run off to Adam Street and engage him definitely.'

'Very well. You engage the locum tenens, and I will be prepared tostart for Woodford as soon as he turns up.'

'Excellent!' said Thorndyke. 'That is a great weight off my mind. Andif you could manage to drop in this evening and smoke a pipe with uswe could talk over the plan of campaign and let you know what items ofinformation we are particularly in want of.'

I promised to turn up at King's Bench Walk as soon after half-pasteight as possible, and my two friends then took their departure,leaving me to set out in high spirits on my scanty round of visits.

It is surprising what different aspects things present from differentpoints of view; how relative are our estimates of the conditions andcircumstances of life. To the urban workman--the journeyman baker ortailor, for instance, labouring year in year out in a singlebuilding--a holiday ramble on Hampstead Heath is a veritable voyage ofdiscovery; whereas to the sailor the shifting panorama of the wholewide world is but the commonplace of the day's work.

So I reflected as I took my place in the train at Liverpool Street onthe following day. There had been a time when a trip by rail to theborders of Epping Forest would have been far from a thrillingexperience; now, after vegetating in the little world of Fetter Lane,it was quite an adventure.

The enforced inactivity of a railway journey is favourable to thought,and I had much to think about. The last few weeks had witnessedmomentous changes in my outlook. New interests had arisen, newfriendships had grown up, and above all, there had stolen into my lifethat supreme influence that, for good or for evil, according to myfortune, was to colour and pervade it even to its close. Those fewdays of companionable labour in the reading-room, with the homelyhospitalities of the milk-shop and the pleasant walks homeward throughthe friendly London streets, had called into existence a new world--aworld in which the gracious personality of Ruth Bellingham was the onedominating reality. And thus, as I leaned back in the corner of therailway carriage with an unlighted pipe in my hand, the events of theimmediate past, together with those more problematical ones of theimpending future, occupied me rather to the exclusion of the businessof the moment, which was to review the remains collected in theWoodford mortuary, until, as the train approached Stratford, theodours of the soap and bone-manure factories poured in at the openwindow and (by a natural association of ideas) brought me back to theobject of my quest.

As to the exact purpose of this expedition, I was not very clear; butI knew that I was acting as Thorndyke's proxy and thrilled with prideat the thought. But what particular light my investigations were tothrow upon the intricate Bellingham case I had no very definite idea.With a view to fixing the procedure in my mind, I took Thorndyke'swritten instructions from my pocket and read them over carefully. Theywere very full and explicit, making ample allowance for my lack ofexperience in medico-legal matters:

'1. Do not appear to make minute investigations or in any way exciteremark.

'2. Ascertain if all the bones belonging to each region are present,and if not, which are missing.

'3. Measure the extreme length of the principal bones and comparethose of opposite sides.

'4. Examine the bones with reference to age, sex, and musculardevelopment of the deceased.

'5. Note the presence or absence of signs of constitutional disease,local disease of bone or adjacent structures, old or recent injuries,and any other departures from the normal or usual.

'6. Observe the presence or absence of adipocere and its position, ifpresent.

'7. Note any remains of tendons, ligaments, or other soft structures.

'8. Examine the Sidcup hand with reference to the question as towhether the finger was separated before or after death.

'9. Estimate the probable period of submersion and note any changes(as e.g., mineral or organic staining) due to the character of thewater or mud.

'10. Ascertain the circumstances (immediate and remote) that led tothe discovery of the bones and the names of the persons concerned inthose circumstances.

'11. Commit all information to writing as soon as possible, and makeplans and diagrams on the spot, if circumstances permit.

'12. Preserve an impassive exterior: listen attentively but withouteagerness; ask as few questions as possible; pursue any inquiry thatyour observations on the spot may suggest.'

These were my instructions, and, considering that I was going merelyto inspect a few dry bones, they appeared rather formidable; in fact,the more I read them over the greater became my misgivings as to myqualifications for the task.

As I approached the mortuary it became evident that some, at least, ofThorndyke's admonitions were by no means unnecessary. The place was incharge of a police sergeant, who watched my approach suspiciously; andsome half-dozen men, obviously newspaper reporters, hovered about theentrance like a pack of jackals. I presented the coroner's order whichMr. Marchmont had obtained, and which the sergeant read with his backagainst the wall, to prevent the newspaper men from looking over hisshoulder.

My credentials being found satisfactory, the door was unlocked and Ientered, accompanied by three enterprising reporters, whom, however,the sergeant summarily ejected and locked out, returning to usher meinto the presence and to observe my proceedings with intelligent buthighly embarrassing interest.

The bones were laid out on a large table and covered with a sheet,which the sergeant slowly turned back, watching my face intently as hedid so to note the impression that the spectacle made upon me. Iimagine that he must have been somewhat disappointed by my impassivedemeanour, for the remains suggested to me nothing more than a rathershabby set of 'student's osteology.' The whole collection had been setout by the police surgeon (as the sergeant informed me) in theirproper anatomical order; notwithstanding which I counted them overcarefully to make sure that none were missing, checking them by thelist with which Thorndyke had furnished me.

'I see you have found the left thigh-bone,' I remarked, observing thatthis did not appear in the list.

'Yes,' said the sergeant; 'that turned up yesterday evening in a bigpond called Baldwin's Pond in the Sandpit plain, near Little MonkWood.'

'Is that near here?' I asked.

'In the forest up Loughton way,' was the reply.

I made a note of the fact (on which the sergeant looked as if he wassorry he had mentioned it), and then turned my attention to a generalconsideration of the bones before examining them in detail. Theirappearance would have been improved and examination facilitated by athorough scrubbing, for they were just as they had been taken fromtheir respective resting-places, and it was difficult to decidewhether their reddish-yellow colour was an actual stain or due to adeposit on the surface. In any case, as it affected them all alike, Ithought it an interesting feature and made a note of it. They borenumerous traces of their sojourn in the various ponds from which theyhad been recovered, but these gave me little help in determining thelength of time during which they had been submerged. They were, ofcourse, encrusted with mud, and little wisps of pond-weed stuck tothem in places; but these facts furnished only the vaguest measure oftime.

Some of the traces were, indeed, more informing. To several of thebones, for instance, there adhered the dried egg-clusters of thecommon pond-snail, and in one of the hollows of the right shoulder-blade (the 'infra-spinous fossa') was a group of the mud-built tubesof the red river-worm. These remains gave proof of a considerableperiod of submersion, and since they could not have been deposited onthe bones until all the flesh had disappeared they furnished evidencethat some time--a month or two, at any rate--had elapsed since thishad happened. Incidentally, too, their distribution showed theposition in which the bones had lain, and though this appeared to beof no importance in the existing circumstances, I made careful notesof the situation of each adherent body, illustrating their position byrough sketches.

The sergeant watched my proceedings with an indulgent smile.

'You're making a regular inventory, sir,' he remarked, 'as if you weregoing to put 'em up for auction. I shouldn't think those snails' eggswould be much help in identification. And all that has been donealready,' he added as I produced my measuring-tape.

'No doubt,' I replied; 'but my business is to make independentobservations, to check the others, if necessary.' And I proceeded tomeasure each of the principal bones separately and to compare those ofthe opposite sides. The agreement in dimensions and generalcharacteristics of the pairs of bones left little doubt that all wereparts of one skeleton, a conclusion that was confirmed by theeburnated patch on the head of the right thigh-bone and thecorresponding patch in the socket of the right hip-bone. When I hadfinished my measurements I went over the entire series of bones indetail, examining each with the closest attention for any of thosesigns which Thorndyke had indicated, and eliciting nothing but amonotonously reiterated negative. They were distressingly anddisappointingly normal.

'Well, sir, what do you make of 'em?' the sergeant asked cheerfully asI shut up my notebook and straightened my back. 'Whose bones are they?Are they Mr. Bellingham's, think ye?'

'I should be very sorry to say whose bones they are,' I replied. 'Onebone is very much like another, you know.'

'I suppose it is,' he agreed; 'but I thought that, with all thatmeasuring and all those notes, you might have arrived at somethingdefinite.' Evidently he was disappointed in me; and I was somewhatdisappointed in myself when I contrasted Thorndyke's elaborateinstructions with the meagre result of my investigations. For what didmy discoveries amount to? And how much was the inquiry advanced by thefew entries in my notebook?

The bones were apparently those of a man of fair though not remarkablemuscular development; over thirty years of age, but how much older Iwas unable to say. His height I judged roughly to be five feet eightinches, but my measurements would furnish data for a more exactestimate by Thorndyke. Beyond this the bones were quiteuncharacteristic. There were no signs of diseases either local orgeneral, no indications of injuries either old or recent, nodepartures of any kind from the normal or usual; and the dismembermenthad been effected with such care that there was not a single scratchon any of the separated surfaces. Of adipocere (the peculiar waxy orsoapy substance that is commonly found in bodies that have slowlydecayed in damp situations) there was not a trace; and the onlyremnant of the soft structures was a faint indication, like a spot ofdried glue, of the tendon on the tip of the right elbow.

The sergeant was in the act of replacing the sheet, with the air of ashowman who has just given an exhibition, when there came a sharprapping on the mortuary door. The officer finished spreading the sheetwith official precision, and having ushered me out into the lobby,turned the key and admitted three persons, holding the door open afterthey had entered for me to go out. But the appearance of the new-comers inclined me to linger. One of them was a local constable,evidently in official charge; a second was a labouring man, very wetand muddy, who carried a small sack; while in the third I thought Iscented a professional brother.

'This,' said the sergeant, 'is a medical gentleman who has gotpermission from the coroner to inspect the remains. He is acting forthe family of the deceased--I mean, for the family of Mr. Bellingham,'he added in answer to an inquiring glance from the surgeon.

'I see,' said the latter. 'Well, they have found the rest of thetrunk, including, I understand, the ribs that were missing from theother part. Isn't that so, Davis?'

'Yes, sir,' replied the constable. 'Inspector Badger says all the ribsis here, and all the bones of the neck as well.'

'The inspector seems to be an anatomist,' I remarked.

The sergeant grinned. 'He is a very knowing gentleman, is Mr. Badger.He came down here this morning quite early and spent a long timelooking over the bones and checking them by some notes in his pocket-book. I fancy he's got something on, but he was precious close aboutit.'

Here the sergeant shut up rather suddenly--perhaps contrasting his ownconduct with that of his superior.

'Let us have these new bones out on the table,' said the policesurgeon. 'Take the sheet off, and don't shoot them out as if they werecoals. Hand them out carefully.'

The labourer fished out the wet and muddy bones one by one from thesack, and as he laid them on the table the surgeon arranged them intheir proper relative positions.

'This has been a neatly executed job,' he remarked; 'none of yourclumsy hacking with a chopper or a saw. The bones have been cleanlyseparated at the joints. The fellow who did this must have had someanatomical knowledge, unless he was a butcher, which, by the way, isnot impossible. He has used his knife uncommonly skilfully, and younotice that each arm was taken off with the scapula attached, just asa butcher takes off a shoulder of mutton. Are there any more bones inthat bag?'

'No, sir,' replied the labourer, wiping his hands with an air offinality on the posterior aspect of his trousers; 'that's the lot.'

The surgeon looked thoughtfully at the bones as he gave a final touchto their arrangement, and remarked:

'The inspector is right. All the bones of the neck are there. Veryodd. Don't you think so?'

'You mean--'

'I mean that this very eccentric murderer seems to have given himselfsuch an extraordinary amount of trouble for no reason that one cansee. There are these neck vertebrae, for instance. He must havecarefully separated the skull from the atlas instead of just cuttingthrough the neck. Then there is the way he divided the trunk; thetwelfth ribs have just come in with this lot, but the twelfth dorsalvertebra to which they belong was attached to the lower half. Imaginethe trouble he must have taken to do that, and without cutting orhacking the bones about, either. It is extraordinary. This is ratherinteresting, by the way. Handle it carefully.'

He picked up the breast-bone daintily--for it was covered with wetmud--and handed it to me with the remark:

'That is the most definite piece of evidence we have.'

'You mean,' I said, 'that the union of the two parts into a singlemass fixes this as the skeleton of an elderly man?'

'Yes, that is the obvious suggestion, which is confirmed by thedeposit of bone in the rib-cartilages. You can tell the inspector,Davis, that I have checked this lot of bones and that they are allhere.'

'Would you mind writing it down, sir?' said the constable. 'InspectorBadger said I was to have everything in writing.'

The surgeon took out his pocket-book, and, while he was selecting asuitable piece of paper, he asked: 'Did you form any opinion as to theheight of the deceased?'

'Yes, I thought he would be about five feet eight' (here I caught thesergeant's eyes, fixed on me with a knowing leer).

'I made it five eight and a half,' said the police surgeon; 'but weshall know better when we have seen the lower leg-bones. Where wasthis lot found, Davis?'

'In the pond just off the road in Lord's Bushes, sir, and theinspector has gone off now to--'

The sergeant's reproof conveyed a hint to me on which I was not slowto act. Friendly as my professional colleague was, it was clear thatthe police were disposed to treat me as an interloper who was to bekept out of the 'know' as far as possible. Accordingly I thanked mycolleague and the sergeant for their courtesy, and bidding them adieuuntil we should meet at the inquest, took my departure and walked awayquickly until I found an inconspicuous position from which I couldkeep the door of the mortuary in view. A few moments later I sawConstable Davis emerge and stride away up the road.

I watched his rapidly diminishing figure until he had gone as far as Iconsidered desirable, and then I set forth in his wake. The road ledstraight away from the village, and in less than half a mile enteredthe outskirts of the forest. Here I quickened my pace to close upsomewhat, and it was well that I did so, for suddenly he diverged fromthe road into a green lane, where for a while I lost sight of him.Still hurrying forward, I again caught sight of him just as he turnedoff into a narrow path that entered a beech wood with a thickishundergrowth of holly, along which I followed him for several minutes,gradually decreasing the distance between us, until suddenly therefell on my ear a rhythmical sound like the clank of a pump. Soon afterI caught the sound of men's voices, and then the constable struck offthe path into the wood.

I now advanced more cautiously, endeavouring to locate the searchparty by the sound of the pump, and when I had done this I made alittle detour so that I might approach from the opposite direction tothat from which the constable had appeared.

Still guided by the noise of the pump, I at length came out into asmall opening among the trees and halted to survey the scene. Thecentre of the opening was occupied by a small pond, not more than adozen yards across, by the side of which stood a builder's handcart.The little two-wheeled vehicle had evidently been used to convey theappliances which were deposited on the ground near it, and whichconsisted of a large tub--now filled with water--a shovel, a rake, asieve, and a portable pump, the latter being fitted with a longdelivery hose. There were three men besides the constable, one of whomwas working the handle of the pump, while another was glancing at apaper that the constable had just delivered to him. He looked upsharply as I appeared, and viewed me with unconcealed disfavour.

'Hallo, sir!' said he. 'You can't come here.'

Now, seeing that I was actually here, this was clearly a mistake, andI ventured to point out the fallacy.

'Well, I can't allow you to stay here. Our business is of a privatenature.'

'I know exactly what your business is, Inspector Badger.'

'Oh, do you?' said he, surveying me with a foxy smile. 'And I expect Iknow what yours is, too. But we can't have any of you newspaper gentryspying on us just at present, so you just be off.'

I thought it best to undeceive him at once, and accordingly, havingexplained who I was, I showed him the coroner's permit, which he readwith manifest annoyance.

'This is all very well, sir,' said he as he handed me back the paper,'but it doesn't authorise you to come spying on the proceedings of thepolice. Any remains that we discover will be deposited in themortuary, where you can inspect them to your heart's content; but youcan't stay here and watch us.'

I had no defined object in keeping a watch on the inspector'sproceedings; but the sergeant's indiscreet hint had aroused mycuriosity, which was further excited by Mr. Badger's evident desire toget rid of me. Moreover, while we had been talking, the pump hadstopped (the muddy floor of the pond being now pretty fully exposed),and the inspector's assistant was handling the shovel impatiently.

'Now I put it to you, Inspector,' said I, persuasively, 'is it politicof you to allow it to be said that you refused an authorisedrepresentative of the family facilities for verifying any statementsthat you may make hereafter?'

'What do you mean?' he asked.

'I mean that if you should happen to find some bone which could beidentified as part of the body of Mr. Bellingham, that fact would beof more importance to his family than to anyone else. You know thatthere is a very valuable estate and a rather difficult will.'

'I didn't know it, and I don't see the bearing of it now' (neither didI for that matter); 'but if you make such a point of being present atthe search, I can't very well refuse. Only you mustn't get in our way,that's all.'

On hearing this conclusion, his assistant, who looked like a plain-clothes officer, took up his shovel and stepped into the mud thatformed the bottom of the pond, stooping as he went and peering amongthe masses of weed that had been left stranded by the withdrawal ofthe water. The inspector watched him anxiously, cautioning him fromtime to time to 'look out where he was treading'; the labourer leftthe pump and craned forward from the margin of the mud, and theconstable and I looked on from our respective points of vantage. Forsome time the search was fruitless. Once the searcher stooped andpicked up what turned out to be a fragment of decayed wood; then theremains of a long-deceased jay were discovered, examined, andrejected. Suddenly the man bent down by the side of a small pool thathad been left in one of the deeper hollows, stared intently into themud, and stood up.

'There's something here that looks like a bone, sir,' he sang out.

'Don't grub about then,' said the inspector. 'Drive your shovel rightinto the mud where you saw it and bring it to the sieve.'

The man followed out these instructions, and as he came shore-wardswith a great pile of the slimy mud on his shovel we all converged onthe sieve, which the inspector took up and held over the tub,directing the constable and labourer to 'lend a hand,' meaning therebythat they were to crowd round the tub and exclude me as completely aspossible. This, in fact, they did very effectively with hisassistance, for, when the shovelful of mud had been deposited on thesieve, the four men leaned over it and so nearly hid it from view thatit was only by craning over, first on one side and then on the other,that I was able to catch an occasional glimpse of it and to observe itgradually melting away as the sieve, immersed in the water, was shakento and fro.

Presently the inspector raised the sieve from the water and stoopedover it more closely to examine its contents. Apparently theexamination yielded no very conclusive results, for it was accompaniedby a series of rather dubious grunts.

At length the officer stood up, and turning to me with a genial butfoxy smile, held out the sieve for my inspection.

'Like to see what we have found, Doctor?' said he.

I thanked him and stood over the sieve. It contained the sort oflitter of twigs, skeleton leaves, weed, pond-snails, dead shells, andfresh-water mussels that one would expect to strain out from the mudof an ancient pond; but in addition to these there were three smallbones which at first glance gave me quite a start until I saw whatthey were.

The inspector looked at me inquiringly. 'H'm?' said he.

'Yes,' I replied. 'Very interesting.'

'Those will be human bones, I fancy; h'm?'

'I should say so, undoubtedly,' I answered.

'Now,' said the inspector, 'could you say, off-hand, which fingerthose bones belong to?'

I smothered a grin (for I had been expecting this question), andanswered:

'I can say off-hand that they don't belong to any finger. They are thebones of the left great toe.'

The inspector's jaw dropped.

'The deuce they are!' he muttered. 'H'm. I thought they looked a bitstout.'

'I expect,' said I, 'that if you go through the mud close to wherethis came from you'll find the rest of the foot.'

The plain-clothes man proceeded at once to act on my suggestion,taking the sieve with him to save time. And sure enough, after fillingit twice with the mud from the bottom of the pool, the entire skeletonof the foot was brought to light.

'Now you're happy, I suppose,' said the inspector when I had checkedthe bones and found them all present.

'I should be more happy,' I replied, 'if I knew what you weresearching for in this pond. You weren't looking for the foot, wereyou?'

'I was looking for anything that I might find,' he answered. 'I shallgo on searching until we have the whole body. I shall go through allthe streams and ponds around here, excepting Con-naught Water. That Ishall leave to the last, as it will be a case of dredging from a boatand isn't so likely as the smaller ponds. Perhaps the head will bethere; it's deeper than any of the others.'

It now occurred to me that as I had learned all that I was likely tolearn, which was little enough, I might as well leave the inspector topursue his searches unembarrassed by my presence. Accordingly Ithanked him for his assistance and departed by the way I had come.

But as I retraced my steps along the shady path I speculatedprofoundly on the officer's proceedings. My examinations of themutilated hand had yielded the conclusion that the finger had beenremoved after death or shortly before, but more probably after. Someone else had evidently arrived at the same conclusion, and hadcommunicated his opinion to Inspector Badger; for it was clear thatthat gentleman was in full cry after the missing finger. But why washe searching for it here when the hand had been found at Sidcup? Andwhat did he expect to learn from it when he found it? There is nothingparticularly characteristic about a finger, or, at least, the bones ofone; and the object of the present researches was to determine theidentity of the person of whom these bones were the remains. There wassomething mysterious about the affair, something suggesting thatInspector Badger was in possession of private information of somekind. But what information could he have? And whence could he haveobtained it? These were questions to which I could find no answer, andI was still fruitlessly revolving them when I arrived at the modestinn where the inquest was to be held, and I proposed to fortify myselfwith a correspondingly modest lunch as a preparation for my attendanceat the inquiry.

CHAPTER XIII. THE CORONER'S QUEST

THE proceedings of that fine old institution, the coroner's court, areapt to have their dignity impaired by the somewhat unjudicialsurroundings amidst which they are conducted. The present inquiry wasto be held in a long room attached to the inn, ordinarily devoted, asits various appurtenances testified, to gatherings of a more convivialcharacter.

Hither I betook myself after a protracted lunch and a meditative pipe,and being the first to arrive--the jury having already been sworn andconducted to the mortuary to view the remains--whiled away the time byconsidering the habits of the customary occupants of the room by thelight of the objects contained in it. A wooden target with one or twodarts sticking in it hung on the end wall and invited the Robin Hoodsof the village to try their skill; a system of incised marks on theoaken table made sinister suggestions of shove-halfpenny; and a largeopen box filled with white wigs, gaudily coloured robes and woodenspears, swords and regalia, crudely coated with gilded paper,obviously appertained to the puerile ceremonials of the Order ofDruids.

I had exhausted the interest of these relics and had transferred myattentions to the picture gallery when the other spectators and thewitnesses began to arrive. Hastily I seated myself in the onlycomfortable chair besides the one placed at the head of the table,presumably for the coroner; and I had hardly done so when the latterentered accompanied by the jury. Immediately after them came thesergeant, Inspector Badger, one or two plain-clothes men, and finallythe divisional surgeon.

The coroner took his seat at the head of the table and opened hisbook, and the jury seated themselves on a couple of benches on oneside of the long table.

I looked with some interest at the twelve 'good men and true.' Theywere a representative group of British tradesmen, quiet, attentive,and rather solemn; but my attention was particularly attracted by asmall man with a very large head and a shock of upstanding hair whom Ihad diagnosed, after a glance at his intelligent but truculentcountenance and the shiny knees of his trousers, as the villagecobbler. He sat between the broad-shouldered foreman, who looked likea blacksmith, and a dogged, red-faced man whose general aspect ofprosperous greasiness suggested the calling of a butcher.

'The inquiry, gentlemen,' the coroner commenced, 'upon which we arenow entering concerns itself with two questions. The first is that ofidentity: who was this person whose body we have just viewed? Thesecond is: How, when, and by what means did he come by his death? Wewill take the identity first and begin with the circumstances underwhich the body was discovered.'

Here the cobbler stood up and raised an excessively dirty hand.

'I rise, Mr. Chairman,' said he, 'to a point of order.' The otherjurymen looked at him curiously and some of them, I regret to say,grinned. 'You have referred, sir,' he continued, 'to the body which wehave just viewed. I wish to point out that we have not viewed a body;we have viewed a collection of bones.'

'We will refer to them as the remains, if you prefer it,' said thecoroner.

'I do prefer it,' was the reply, and the objector sat down.

'Very well,' rejoined the coroner, and he proceeded to call thewitnesses, of whom the first was a labourer who had discovered thebones in the watercress-bed.

'Do you happen to know how long it was since the watercress-beds hadbeen cleaned out previously?' the coroner asked, when the witness hadtold the story of the discovery.

'They was cleaned out by Mr. Tapper's orders just before he gave themup. That will be a little better than two years ago. In May it were. Ihelped to clean 'em. I worked on this very same place and there wasn'tno bones there then.'

The coroner glanced at the jury. 'Any questions, gentlemen,' he asked.

The cobbler directed an intimidating scowl at the witness anddemanded:

'Were you searching for bones when you came on these remains?'

'Me!' exclaimed the witness. 'What should I be searching for bonesfor?'

'Don't prevaricate,' said the cobbler sternly; 'answer the question:Yes or no.'

'No, of course I wasn't.'

The juryman shook his enormous head dubiously as though implying thathe would let it pass this time but it mustn't happen again; and theexamination of the witnesses continued, without eliciting anythingthat was new to me or giving rise to any incident, until the sergeanthad described the finding of the right arm in the Cuckoo Pits.

'Was this an accidental discovery?' the coroner asked.

'No. We had instructions from Scotland Yard to search any likely pondsin this neighbourhood.'

The coroner discreetly forbore to press this matter any further, butmy friend the cobbler was evidently on the qui-vive, and I anticipateda brisk cross-examination for Mr. Badger when his turn came. Theinspector was apparently of the same opinion, for I saw him cast aglance of the deepest malevolence at the too inquiring disciple of StCrispin. In fact, his turn came next, and the cobbler's hair stood upwith unholy joy.

The finding of the lower half of the trunk in Staple's Pond atLoughton was the inspector's own achievement, but he was not boastfulabout it. The discovery, he remarked, followed naturally on theprevious one in the Cuckoo Pits.

'Had you any private information that led you to search thisparticular neighbourhood?' the cobbler asked.

'We had no private information whatever,' replied Badger.

'Now I put it to you,' pursued the juryman, shaking a forensic, andvery dirty, forefinger at the inspector; 'here are certain remainsfound at Sidcup; here are certain other remains found at St Mary Cray,and certain others at Lee. All those places are in Kent. Now isn't itvery remarkable that you should come straight down to Epping Forest,which is in Essex, and search for those bones and find 'em?'

'We were making a systematic search of all likely places,' repliedBadger.

'Exactly,' said the cobbler, with a ferocious grin, 'that's just mypoint. I say, isn't it very funny that, after finding the remains inKent some twenty miles from here, with the River Thames between, youshould come here to look for the bones and go straight to Staple'sPond, where they happen to be--and find 'em?'

'It would have been more funny,' Badger replied sourly, 'if we'd gonestraight to a place where they happened not to be--and found them.'

A gratified snigger arose from the other eleven good men and true, andthe cobbler grinned savagely; but before he could think of a suitablerejoinder the coroner interposed.

'The question is not very material,' he said, 'and we mustn'tembarrass the police by unnecessary inquiries.'

'It's my belief,' said the cobbler, 'that he knew they were there allthe time.'

'The witness has stated that he had no private information,' said thecoroner; and he proceeded to take the rest of the inspector'sevidence, watched closely by the critical juror.

The account of the finding of the remains having been given in full,the police surgeon was called and sworn; the jurymen straightenedtheir backs with an air of expectancy, and I turned over a page of mynotebook.

'You have examined the bones at present lying in the mortuary andforming the subject of this inquiry?' the coroner asked.

'I have.'

'Will you kindly tell us what you have observed?'

'I find that the bones are human bones, and are, in my opinion, allparts of the same person. They form a skeleton which is complete withthe exception of the skull, the third finger of the left hand, theknee-caps, and the leg-bones--I mean the bones between the knees andthe ankles.'

'Is there anything to account for the absence of the missing finger?'

'No. There is no deformity and no sign of its having been amputatedduring life. In my opinion it was removed after death.'

'Can you give us any description of the deceased?'

'I should say that these are the bones of an elderly man, probablyover sixty years of age, about five feet eight and a half inches inheight, of rather stout build, fairly muscular, and well preserved.There are no signs of disease excepting some old-standing rheumaticgout of the right hip-joint.'

'Can you form any opinion as to the cause of death?'

'No. There are no marks of violence or signs of injury. But it will beimpossible to form any opinion as to the cause of death until we haveseen the skull.'

'Did you note anything else of importance?'

'Yes. I was struck by the appearance of anatomical knowledge and skillon the part of the person who dismembered the body. The knowledge ofanatomy is proved by the fact that the corpse has been divided intodefinite anatomical regions. For instance, the bones of the neck arecomplete and include the top joint of the backbone known as the atlas;whereas a person without anatomical knowledge would probably take offthe head by cutting through the neck. Then the arms have beenseparated with the scapula (or shoulder-blade) and clavicle (orcollar-bone) attached, just as an arm would be removed for dissection.

'The skill is shown by the neat way in which the dismemberment hasbeen carried out. The parts have not been rudely hacked asunder, buthave been separated at the joints so skilfully that I have notdiscovered a single scratch or mark of the knife on any of the bones.'

'Can you suggest any class of person who would be likely to possessthe knowledge and skill to which you refer?'

'It would, of course, be possessed by a surgeon or medical student,and possibly by a butcher.'

'You think that the person who dismembered this body may have been asurgeon or a medical student?'

'Yes; or a butcher. Some one accustomed to the dismemberment of bodiesand skilful with the knife.'

Here the cobbler suddenly rose to his feet.

'I rise, Mr. Chairman,' said he, 'to protest against the statementthat has just been made.'

'What statement?' demanded the coroner.

'Against the aspersion,' continued the cobbler, with an oratoricalflourish, 'that has been cast upon a honourable calling.'

'I don't understand you,' said the coroner.

'Doctor Summers has insinuated that this murder was committed by abutcher. Now a member of that honourable calling is sitting on thisjury--'

'You let me alone,' growled the butcher.

'I will not let you alone,' persisted the cobbler. 'I desire--'

'Oh, shut up, Pope!' This was from the foreman, who, at the samemoment, reached out an enormous hairy hand with which he grabbed thecobbler's coat-tails and brought him into a sitting posture with athump that shook the room.

But Mr. Pope, though seated, was not silenced. 'I desire,' he said,'to have my protest put on record.'

'I can't do that,' said the coroner, 'and I can't allow you tointerrupt the witnesses.'

'I am acting,' said Mr. Pope, 'in the interests of my friend here andthe members of a honourable--'

But here the butcher turned on him savagely, and, in a hoarse stage-whisper, exclaimed:

'Look here, Pope; you've got too much of what the cat licks--'

'Gentlemen! gentlemen!' the coroner protested sternly; 'I cannotpermit this unseemly conduct. You are forgetting the solemnity of theoccasion and your own responsible positions. I must insist on moredecent and decorous behaviour.'

There was profound silence, in the midst of which the butcherconcluded in the same hoarse whisper:

'--licks 'er paws with.'

The coroner cast a withering glance at him, and, turning to thewitness, resumed the examination.

'Can you tell us, Doctor, how long a time has elapsed since the deathof the deceased?'

'I should say not less than eighteen months, but probably more. Howmuch more it is impossible from inspection alone to say. The bones areperfectly clean--that is, clean of all soft structures--and willremain substantially in their present condition for many years.'

'The evidence of the man who found the remains in the watercress-bedsuggests that they could not have been there for more than two years.Do the appearances in your opinion agree with that view?'

'Yes; perfectly.'

'There is one more point, Doctor; a very important one. Do you findanything in any of the bones, or all of them together, which wouldenable you to identify them as the bones of any particularindividual?'

'No,' replied Dr. Summers; 'I found no peculiarity that could furnishthe means of personal identification.'

'The description of a missing individual has been given to us,' saidthe coroner; 'a man, fifty-nine years of age, five feet eight inchesin height, healthy, well preserved, rather broad in build, and havingan old Pott's fracture of the left ankle. Do the remains that you haveexamined agree with that description?'

'Yes, so far as agreement is possible. There is no disagreement.'

'The remains might be those of that individual?'

'They might; but there is no positive evidence that they are. Thedescription would apply to a large proportion of elderly men, exceptas to the fracture.'

'You found no signs of such a fracture?'

'No. Pott's fracture affects the bone called the fibula. That is oneof the bones that has not yet been found, so there is no evidence onthat point. The left foot was quite normal, but then it would be inany case, unless the fracture had resulted in great deformity.'

'You estimated the height of the deceased as half an inch greater thanthat of the missing person. Does that constitute a disagreement?'

'No; my estimate is only approximate. As the arms are complete and thelegs are not, I have based my calculations on the width across the twoarms. But measurement of the thigh-bones gives the same result. Thelength of the thigh-bones is one foot seven inches and five-eighths.'

'So the deceased might not have been taller than five feet eight?'

'That is so; from five feet eight to five feet nine.'

'Thank you. I think that is all we want to ask you, Doctor; unless thejury wish to put any questions.'

He glanced uneasily at that august body, and instantly theirrepressible Pope rose to the occasion.

'About that finger that is missing,' said the cobbler. 'You say thatit was cut off after death?'

'That is my opinion.'

'Now can you tell us why it was cut off?'

'No, I cannot.'

'Oh, come now, Doctor Summers, you must have formed some opinion onthe subject.'

Here the coroner interposed. 'The Doctor is only concerned with theevidence arising out of the actual examination of the remains. Anypersonal opinions or conjectures that he may have formed are notevidence, and he must not be asked about them.'

'But, sir,' objected Pope, 'we want to know why that finger was cutoff. It couldn't have been took off for no reason. May I ask, sir, ifthe person who is missing had anything peculiar about that finger?'

'Nothing is stated to that effect in the written description,' repliedthe coroner.

'Perhaps,' suggested Pope, 'Inspector Badger can tell us.'

'I think,' said the coroner, 'we had better not ask the police toomany questions. They will tell us anything that they wish to be madepublic.'

'Oh, very well,' snapped the cobbler. 'If it's a matter of hushing itup I've got no more to say; only I don't see how we are to arrive at averdict if we don't have the facts put before us.'

All the witnesses having now been examined, the coroner proceeded tosum up and address the jury.

'You have heard the evidence, gentlemen, of the various witnesses, andyou will have perceived that it does not enable us to answer either ofthe questions that form the subject of this inquiry. We now know thatthe deceased was an elderly man, about sixty years of age, and aboutfive feet eight to nine in height; and that his death took place fromeighteen months to two years ago. That is all we know. From thetreatment to which the body has been subjected we may form conjecturesas to the circumstances of his death. But we have no actual knowledge.We do not know who the deceased was or how he came by his death.Consequently, it will be necessary to adjourn this inquiry until freshfacts are available, and as soon as that is the case, you will receivedue notice that your attendance is required.'

The silence of the Court gave place to the confused noise of movingchairs and a general outbreak of eager talk, amidst which I rose andmade my way out into the street. At the door I encountered Dr.Summers, whose dog-cart was waiting close by.

'Are you going back to town now?' he asked.

'Yes,' I answered; 'as soon as I can catch a train.'

'If you jump into my cart I'll run you down in time for the five-one.You'll miss it if you walk.'

I accepted his offer thankfully, and a minute later was spinningbriskly down the road to the station.

'Yes,' I answered; 'that was what his appearance suggested. It must betrying for the coroner to get a truculent rascal like that on a jury.'

Summers laughed. 'I don't know. He supplies the comic relief. Andthen, you know, those fellows have their uses. Some of his questionswere pretty pertinent.'

'So Badger seemed to think.'

'Yes, by Jove,' chuckled Summers. 'Badger didn't like him a bit; and Isuspect the worthy inspector was sailing pretty close to the wind inhis answers.'

'You think he really has some private information?'

'Depends upon what you mean by "information." The police are not aspeculative body. They wouldn't be taking all this trouble unless theyhad a pretty straight tip from somebody. How are Mr. and MissBellingham? I used to know them when they lived here.'

I was considering a discreet answer to this question when we sweptinto the station yard. At the same moment the train drew up at theplatform, and, with a hurried hand-shake and hastily spoken thanks, Isprang from the dog-cart and darted into the station.

During the rather slow journey homewards I read over my notes andendeavoured to extract from the facts they set forth some significanceother than that which lay on the surface, but without much success.Then I fell to speculating on what Thorndyke would think of theevidence at the inquest and whether he would be satisfied with theinformation that I had collected. These speculations lasted me, withoccasional digressions, until I arrived at the Temple and ran up thestairs rather eagerly to my friends' chambers.

But here a disappointment awaited me. The nest was empty with theexception of Polton, who appeared at the laboratory door in his whiteapron, with a pair of flat-nosed pliers in his hand.

'The Doctor had to go down to Bristol to consult over an urgent case,'he explained, 'and Doctor Jervis has gone with him. They'll be away aday or two, I expect, but the Doctor left this note for you.'

He took a letter from the shelf, where it had been stood conspicuouslyon edge, and handed it to me. It was a short note from Thorndykeapologising for his sudden departure and asking me to give Polton mynotes with any comments that I had to make.

'You will be interested to learn,' he added, 'that the applicationwill be heard in the Probate Court the day after to-morrow. I shallnot be present, of course, nor will Jervis, so I should like you toattend and keep your eyes open for anything that may happen during thehearing and that may not appear in the notes that Marchmont's clerkwill be instructed to take. I have retained Dr. Payne to stand by andhelp you with the practice, so that you can attend the Court with aclear conscience.'

This was highly flattering and quite atoned for the smalldisappointment; with deep gratification at the trust that Thorndykehad reposed in me, I pocketed the letter, handed my notes to Polton,wished him 'Good-evening,' and betook myself to Fetter Lane.

CHAPTER XIV. WHICH CARRIES THE READER INTO THE PROBATE COURT

THE Probate Court wore an air of studious repose when I entered withMiss Bellingham and her father. Apparently the great and inquisitivepublic had not become aware of the proceedings that were about to takeplace, or had not realised their connection with the sensational'Mutilation Case'; but barristers and Pressmen, better informed, hadgathered in some strength, and the hum of their conversation filledthe air like the droning of the voluntary that ushers in a cathedralservice.

'This is Mr. Marchmont, Doctor,' said the former, introducing me; andthe solicitor, having thanked me for the trouble I had taken inattending at the inquest, led us to a bench, at the farther end ofwhich was seated a gentleman whom I recognised as Mr. Hurst.

Mr. Bellingham recognised him at the same moment and glared at himwrathfully.

'I see that scoundrel is here!' he exclaimed in a distinctly audiblevoice, 'pretending that he doesn't see me, because he is ashamed tolook me in the face, but--'

'Hush! hush! my dear sir,' exclaimed the horrified solicitor; 'wemustn't talk like that, especially in this place. Let me beg you--letme entreat you to control your feelings, to make no indiscreetremarks; in fact, to make no remarks at all,' he added, with theevident conviction that any remarks that Mr. Bellingham might makewould be certain to be indiscreet.

'Forgive me, Marchmont,' Mr. Bellingham replied contritely. 'I willcontrol myself: I will really be quite discreet. I won't even look athim again--because, if I do, I shall probably go over and pull hisnose.'

This form of discretion did not appear to be quite to Mr. Marchmont'sliking, for he took the precaution of insisting that Miss Bellinghamand I should sit on the farther side of his client, and thuseffectually separate him from his enemy.

'That is Mr. Loram, KG, Mr. Hurst's counsel; and the convivial-lookinggentleman next to him is our counsel, Mr. Heath, a most able manand'--here Mr. Marchmont whispered behind his hand--'fully instructedby Doctor Thorndyke.'

At this juncture the judge entered and took his seat; the usherproceeded with great rapidity to swear in the jury, and the Courtgradually settled down into that state of academic quiet which itmaintained throughout the proceedings, excepting when the noisy swing-doors were set oscillating by some bustling clerk or reporter.

The judge was a somewhat singular-looking old gentleman, very short asto his face and very long as to his mouth; which peculiarities,together with a pair of large and bulging eyes (which he usually keptclosed), suggested a certain resemblance to a frog. And he had acurious frog-like trick of flattening his eyelids--as if in the act ofswallowing a large beetle--which was the only outward and visible signof emotion that he ever displayed.

As soon as the swearing in of the jury was completed Mr. Loram rose tointroduce the case; whereupon his lordship leaned back in his chairand closed his eyes, as if bracing himself for a painful operation.

'The present proceedings,' Mr. Loram explained, 'are occasioned by theunaccountable disappearance of Mr. John Bellingham, of 141, QueenSquare, Bloomsbury, which occurred about two years ago, or, to be moreprecise, on the twenty-third of November, nineteen hundred and two.Since that date nothing has been heard of Mr. Bellingham, and, asthere are certain substantial reasons for believing him to be dead,the principal beneficiary under his will, Mr. George Hurst, is nowapplying to the Court for permission to presume the death of thetestator and prove the will. As the time which has elapsed since thetestator was last seen alive is only two years, the application isbased upon the circumstances of the disappearance, which were, in manyrespects, very singular, the most remarkable feature of thatdisappearance being, perhaps, its suddenness and completeness.'

Here the judge remarked in a still, small voice that 'It would,perhaps, have been even more remarkable if the testator haddisappeared gradually and incompletely.'

'No doubt, my lord,' agreed Mr. Loram; 'but the point is that thetestator, whose habits had always been regular and orderly,disappeared on the date mentioned without having made any of the usualprovisions for the conduct of his affairs, and has not since then beenseen or heard of.'

With this preamble Mr. Loram proceeded to give a narrative of theevents connected with the disappearance of John Bellingham, which wassubstantially identical with that which I had read in the newspapers;and having laid the actual facts before the jury, he went on todiscuss their probable import.

'Now, what conclusion,' he asked, 'will this strange, this mostmysterious train of events suggest to an intelligent person who shallconsider it impartially? Here is a man who steps forth from the houseof his cousin or his brother, as the case may be, and forthwith, inthe twinkling of an eye, vanishes from human ken. What is theexplanation? Did he steal forth and, without notice or hint of hisintention, take train to some seaport, thence to embark for somedistant land, leaving his affairs to take care of themselves and hisfriends to speculate vainly as to his whereabouts? Is he now hidingabroad, or even at home, indifferent alike to the safety of his ownconsiderable property and the peace of mind of his friends? Or is itthat death has come upon him unawares by sickness, by accident, or,more probably, by the hand of some unknown criminal? Let us considerthe probabilities.

'Can he have disappeared by his own deliberate act? Why not? it may beasked. Men undoubtedly do disappear from time to time, to bediscovered by chance or to reappear voluntarily after intervals ofyears and find their names almost forgotten and their places filled bynew-comers. Yes; but there is always some reason for a disappearanceof this kind, even though it be a bad one. Family discords that makelife a weariness; pecuniary difficulties that make life a successionof anxieties; distaste for particular circumstances and surroundingsfrom which there seems no escape; inherent restlessness and vagabondtendencies, and so on.

'Do any of these explanations apply to the present case? No, they donot. Family discords--at least those capable of producing chronicmisery--appertain exclusively to a married state. But the testator wasa bachelor with no encumbrances whatever. Pecuniary anxieties can beequally excluded. The testator was in easy, in fact, in affluentcircumstances. His mode of life was apparently agreeable and full ofinterest and activity, and he had full liberty of change if he wished.He had been accustomed to travel, and could do so again withoutabsconding. He had reached an age when radical changes do not seemdesirable. He was a man of fixed and regular habits, and hisregularity was of his own choice and not due to compulsion ornecessity. When last seen by his friends, as I shall prove, he wasproceeding to a definite destination with the expressed intention ofreturning for purposes of his own appointing. He did return and thenvanished, leaving those purposes unachieved.

'If we conclude that he has voluntarily disappeared and is at presentin hiding, we adopt an opinion that is entirely at variance with allthese weighty facts. If, on the other hand, we conclude that he hasdied suddenly, or has been killed by an accident or otherwise, we areadopting a view that involves no inherent improbabilities and that isentirely congruous with the known facts; facts that will be proved bythe testimony of the witnesses whom I shall call. The supposition thatthe testator is dead is not only more probable than that he is alive;I submit it is the only reasonable explanation of the circumstances ofhis disappearance.

'But this is not all. The presumption of death which arises soinevitably out of the mysterious and abrupt manner in which thetestator disappeared has recently received most conclusive anddreadful confirmation. On the fifteenth of July last there werediscovered at Sidcup the remains of a human arm--a left arm,gentlemen, from the hand of which the third, or ring, finger wasmissing. The doctor who has examined that arm will tell you that thefinger was cut off either after death or immediately before; and hisevidence will prove conclusively that that arm must have beendeposited in the place where it was found just about the time when thetestator disappeared. Since that first discovery, other portions ofthe same mutilated body have come to light; and it is a strange andsignificant fact that they have all been found in the immediateneighbourhood of Eltham or Woodford. You will remember, gentlemen,that it was either at Eltham or Woodford that the testator was lastseen alive.

'And now observe the completeness of the coincidence. These humanremains, as you will be told presently by the experienced and learnedmedical gentleman who has examined them most exhaustively, are thoseof a man of about sixty years of age, about five feet eight inches inheight, fairly muscular and well preserved, apparently healthy, andrather stoutly built. Another witness will tell you that the missingman was about sixty years of age, about five feet eight inches inheight, fairly muscular and well preserved, apparently healthy, andrather stoutly built. And--another most significant and strikingfact--the testator was accustomed to wear upon the third finger of hisleft hand--the very finger that is missing from the remains that werefound--a most peculiar ring, which fitted so tightly that he wasunable to get it off after once putting it on; a ring, gentlemen, ofso peculiar a pattern that had it been found on the body must haveinstantly established the identity of the remains. In a word,gentlemen, the remains which have been found are those of a manexactly like the testator; they differ from him in no respectwhatever; they display a mutilation which suggests an attempt toconceal an identifying peculiarity which he undoubtedly presented; andthey were deposited in their various hiding-places about the time ofthe testator's disappearance. Accordingly, when you have heard thesefacts proved by the sworn testimony of competent witnesses, togetherwith the facts relating to the disappearance, I shall ask you for averdict in accordance with that evidence.'

Mr. Loram sat down, and adjusting a pair of pince-nez, rapidly glancedover his brief while the usher was administering the oath to the firstwitness.

This was Mr. Jellicoe, who stepped into the box and directed a stonygaze at the (apparently) unconscious judge. The usual preliminarieshaving been gone through, Mr. Loram proceeded to examine him.

'You were the testator's solicitor and confidential agent, I believe?'

'I was--and am.'

'How long have you known him?'

'Twenty-seven years.'

'Judging from your experience of him, should you say that he was aperson likely to disappear voluntarily and suddenly to cease tocommunicate with his friends?

'No.'

'Kindly give your reasons for that opinion.'

'Such conduct on the part of the testator would be entirely opposed tohis habits and character as they are known to me. He was exceedinglyregular and businesslike in his dealings with me.

When travelling abroad he always kept me informed as to hiswhereabouts, or, if he was likely to be beyond reach ofcommunications, he always advised me beforehand. One of my duties wasto collect a pension which he drew from the Foreign Office, and on nooccasion, previous to his disappearance, has he ever failed to furnishme punctually with the necessary documents.'

'Had he, so far as you know, any reasons for wishing to disappear?'

'No.'

'When and where did you last see him alive?'

'At six o'clock in the evening, on the fourteenth of October, nineteenhundred and two, at 141, Queen Square, Bloomsbury.'

'Kindly tell us what happened on that occasion.'

'The testator had called for me at my office at a quarter past three,and asked me to come with him to his house to meet Doctor Norbury. Iaccompanied him to 141, Queen Square, and shortly after we arrivedDoctor Norbury came to look at some antiquities that the testatorproposed to give to the British Museum. The gift consisted of a mummywith four Canopic jars and other tomb-furniture which the testatorstipulated should be exhibited together in a single case and in thestate in which they were then presented. Of these objects, the mummyonly was ready for inspection. The tomb-furniture had not yet arrivedin England, but was expected within a week. Doctor Norbury acceptedthe gift on behalf of the Museum, but could not take possession of theobjects until he had communicated with the Director and obtained hisformal authority. The testator accordingly gave me certaininstructions concerning the delivery of the gift, as he was leavingEngland that evening.'

'Are those instructions relevant to the subject of this inquiry?'

'I think they are. The testator was going to Paris, and perhaps thenceto Vienna. He instructed me to receive and unpack the tomb-furnitureon its arrival, and to store it, with the mummy, in a particular room,where it was to remain for three weeks. If he returned within thattime he was to hand it over in person to the Museum authorities; if hehad not returned within that time, he desired me to notify the Museumauthorities that they were at liberty to take possession of and removethe collection at their convenience. From these instructions Igathered that the testator was uncertain as to the length of hisabsence from England and the extent of his journey.'

'Did he state precisely where he was going?'

'No. He said he was going to Paris and perhaps to Vienna, but he gaveno particulars and I asked for none.' 'Do you, in fact, know where hewent?'

'No. He left the house at six o'clock wearing a long, heavy overcoatand carrying a suit-case and an umbrella. I wished him "Good-bye" atthe door and watched him walk away as if going towards SouthamptonRow. I have no idea where he went, and I never saw him again.'

'Had he no other luggage than the suit-case?' 'I do not know, but Ibelieve not. He was accustomed to travel with the bare necessaries,and to buy anything further he wanted en route.'

'Did he say nothing to the servants as to the probable date of hisreturn?'

'There were no servants excepting the caretaker. The house was notused for residential purposes. The testator slept and took his mealsat his club, though he kept his clothes at the house.' 'Did youreceive any communication from him after he left?' 'No. I never heardfrom him again in any way. I waited for three weeks as he hadinstructed me, and then notified the Museum authorities that thecollection was ready for removal. Five days later Doctor Norbury cameand took formal possession of it, and it was transferred to the Museumforthwith.' 'When did you next hear of the testator?'

'On the twenty-third of November following at a quarter-past seven inthe evening. Mr. George Hurst came to my rooms, which are over myoffice, and informed me that the testator had called at his houseduring his absence and had been shown into the study to wait for him.That on his--Mr. Hurst's--arrival it was found that the testator haddisappeared without acquainting the servants of his intendeddeparture, and without being seen by anyone to leave the house. Mr.Hurst thought this so remarkable that he had hastened up to town toinform me. I also thought it a remarkable circumstance, especially asI had received no communication from the testator, and we both decidedthat it was advisable to inform the testator's brother, Godfrey, ofwhat had happened.

'Accordingly-Mr. Hurst and I proceeded as quickly as possible toLiverpool Street and took the first train available to Woodford, whereMr. Godfrey Bellingham then resided. We arrived at his house at fiveminutes to nine, and were informed by the servant that he was not athome, but that his daughter was in the library, which was a detachedbuilding situated in the grounds. The servant lighted a lantern andconducted us through the grounds to the library, where we found Mr.Godfrey Bellingham and Miss Bellingham. Mr. Godfrey had only just comein and had entered by the back gate, which had a bell that rang in thelibrary. Mr. Hurst informed Mr. Godfrey of what had occurred, and thenwe left the library to walk up to the house. A few paces from thelibrary I noticed by the light of the lantern, which Mr. Godfrey wascarrying, a small object lying on the lawn. I pointed it to him and hepicked it up, and then we all recognised it as a scarab that thetestator was accustomed to wear on his watch-chain. It was fitted witha gold wire passed through the suspension hole and a gold ring. Boththe wire and the ring were in position, but the ring was broken. Wewent to the house and questioned the servants as to visitors; but noneof them had seen the testator, and they all agreed that no visitorwhatsoever had come to the house during the afternoon or evening. Mr.Godfrey and Miss Bellingham both declared that they had neither seennor heard anything of the testator, and were both unaware that he hadreturned to England. As the circumstances were somewhat disquieting, Icommunicated, on the following morning, with the police and requestedthem to make inquiries; which they did, with the result that a suit-case bearing the initials "J. B.", was found to be lying unclaimed inthe cloak-room at Charing Cross Station. I was able to identify thesuit-case as that which I had seen the testator carry away from QueenSquare. I was also able to identify some of the contents. Iinterviewed the cloak-room attendant, who informed me that the suit-case had been deposited on the twenty-third about 4.15 p.m. He had norecollection of the person who deposited it. It remained unclaimed inthe possession of the railway company for three months, and was thensurrendered to me.'

'Were there any marks or labels on it showing the route by which ithad travelled?'

'There were no labels on it and no marks other than the initials"J.B."

'Do you happen to know the testator's age?'

'Yes. He was fifty-nine on the eleventh of October, nineteen hundredand two.'

'Can you tell us what his height was?'

'Yes. He was exactly five feet eight inches.'

'What sort of health had he?'

'So far as I know his health was good. I am not aware that he sufferedfrom any disease. I am only judging by his appearance, which was thatof a healthy man.'

'Should you describe him as well preserved or otherwise?'

'I should describe him as a well preserved man for his age.'

'How should you describe his figure?'

'I should describe him as rather broad and stout in build, and fairlymuscular, though not exceptionally so.'

Mr. Loram made a rapid note of these answers and then said:

'You have told us, Mr. Jellicoe, that you have known the testatorintimately for twenty-seven years. Now, did you ever notice whether hewas accustomed to wear any rings upon his fingers?'

'He wore upon the third finger of his left hand a copy of an antiquering which bore the device of the Eye of Osiris. That was the onlyring he ever wore as far as I know.'

'Did he wear it constantly?'

'Yes, necessarily; because it was too small for him, and having oncesqueezed it on he was never able to get it off again.'

This was the sum of Mr. Jellicoe's evidence, and at its conclusion thewitness glanced inquiringly at Mr. Bellingham's counsel. But Mr. Heathremained seated, attentively considering the notes that he had justmade, and finding that there was to be no cross-examination, Mr.Jellicoe stepped down from the box. I leaned back on my bench, and,turning my head, observed Miss Bellingham deep in thought.

'What do you think of it?' I asked.

'It seems very complete and conclusive,' she replied. And then, with asigh, she murmured: 'Poor old Uncle John! How horrid it sounds to talkof him in this cold-blooded, business-like way, as "the testator," asif he were nothing but a sort of algebraical sign.'

'There isn't much room for sentiment, I suppose, in the proceedings ofthe Probate Court,' I replied. To which she assented, and then asked:'Who is this lady?'

'This lady' was a fashionably dressed young woman who had just bouncedinto the witness-box and was now being sworn. The preliminaries beingfinished, she answered Miss Bellingham's question and Mr. Loram's bystating that her name was Augustina Gwendoline Dobbs, and that she washousemaid to Mr. George Hurst, of' The Poplars,' Eltham.

'I know that,' said the witness viciously; 'and I say that you've nobusiness to make any such insinuations to a respectable young ladywhen there's a cook-housekeeper and a kitchenmaid living in the house,and him old enough to be my father--'

Here his lordship flattened his eyelids with startling effect, and Mr.Loram interrupted: 'I make no insinuations. I merely ask, Is youremployer, Mr. Hurst, an unmarried man, or is he not?'

'I never asked him,' said the witness sulkily.

'Please answer my question--yes or no.'

'How can I answer your question? He may be married or he may not. Howdo I know? I'm no private detective.'

Mr. Loram directed a stupefied gaze at the witness, and in the ensuingsilence a plaintive voice came from the bench:

'Is that point material?'

'Certainly, my lord,' replied Mr. Loram.

'Then, as I see that you are calling Mr. Hurst, perhaps you had betterput the question to him. He will probably know.'

Mr. Loram bowed, and as the judge subsided into his normal state ofcoma he turned to the triumphant witness.

'Do you remember anything remarkable occurring on the twenty-third ofNovember the year before last?'

'Yes. Mr. John Bellingham called at our house.'

'How did you know he was Mr. John Bellingham?'

'I didn't; but he said he was, and I supposed he knew.'

'At what time did he arrive?'

'At twenty minutes past five in the evening.'

'What happened then?'

'I told him that Mr. Hurst had not come home yet, and he said he wouldwait for him in the study and write some letters; so I showed him intothe study and shut the door.'

'What happened next?'

'Nothing. Then Mr. Hurst came home at his usual time--a quarter tosix--and let himself in with his key. He went straight into the studywhere I supposed Mr. Bellingham still was, so I took no notice, butlaid the table for two. At six o'clock Mr. Hurst came into the dining-room--he has tea in the City and dines at six--and when he saw thetable laid for two he asked the reason. I said I thought Mr.Bellingham was staying to dinner.

'"Mr. Bellingham!" says he. "I didn't know he was here. Why didn't youtell me?" he says. "I thought he was with you, sir," I said. "I showedhim into the study," I said. "Well, he wasn't there when I came in,"he said, "and he isn't there now," he said. "Perhaps he has gone towait in the drawing-room," he said. So we went and looked in thedrawing-room, but he wasn't there. Then Mr. Hurst said he thought Mr.Bellingham must have got tired of waiting and gone away; but I toldhim I was quite sure he hadn't, because I had been watching all thetime. Then he asked me if Mr. Bellingham was alone or whether hisdaughter was with him, and I said that it wasn't that Mr. Bellinghamat all, but Mr. John Bellingham, and then he was more surprised thanever. I said we had better search the house to make sure whether hewas there or not, and Mr. Hurst said he would come with me; so we allwent over the house and looked in all the rooms, but there was not asign of Mr. Bellingham in any of them. Then Mr. Hurst got very nervousand upset, and when he had just snatched a little dinner he ran off tocatch the six thirty-one train up to town.'

'You say that Mr. Bellingham could not have left the house because youwere watching all the time. Where were you while you were watching?'

'I was in the kitchen. I could see the front gate from the kitchenwindow.'

'You say that you laid the table for two. Where did you lay it?'

'In the dining-room, of course.'

'Could you see the front gate from the dining-room?'

'No, but I could see the study door. The study is opposite the dining-room.'

'Do you have to come upstairs to get from the kitchen to the dining-room?'

'Yes, of course you do!'

'Then, might not Mr. Bellingham have left the house while you werecoming up the stairs?'

'No, he couldn't have done.'

'Why not?'

'Because it would have been impossible.'

'But why would it have been impossible?'

'Because he couldn't have done it.'

'I suggest that Mr. Bellingham left the house quietly while you wereon the stairs?'

'No, he didn't.'

'How do you know he did not?'

'I am quite sure he didn't.'

'But how can you be certain?'

'Because I should have seen him if he had.'

'But I mean when you were on the stairs.'

'He was in the study when I was on the stairs.'

'How do you know he was in the study?'

'Because I showed him in there and he hadn't come out.'

Mr. Loram paused and took a deep breath, and his lordship flattenedhis eyelids.

'Is there a gate to the premises?' the barrister resumed wearily.

'Yes. It opens into a narrow lane at the side of the house.'

'And there is a French window in the study, is there not?'

'Yes It opens on to the small grass plot opposite the side gate.'

'Were the window and the gate locked or would it have been possiblefor Mr. Bellingham to let himself out into the lane?'

'The window and the gate both have catches on the inside. He couldhave got out that way, but, of course, he didn't.'

'Why not?'

'Well, no gentleman would go creeping out the back way like a thief.'

'Did you look to see if the French window was shut and fastened afteryou missed Mr. Bellingham?'

'I looked at it when we shut the house up for the night. It was thenshut and fastened on the inside.'

'And the side gate?'

'That gate was shut and latched. You have to slam the gate to make thelatch fasten, so no one could have gone out of the gate without beingheard.'

Here the examination-in-chief ended, and Mr. Loram sat down with anaudible sigh of relief. Miss Dobbs was about to step down from thewitness-box when Mr. Heath rose to cross-examine.

'Did you see Mr. Bellingham in a good light?' he asked.

'Pretty good. It was dark outside, but the hall-lamp was alight.'

'Kindly look at this'--here a small object was passed across to thewitness. 'It is a trinket that Mr. Bellingham is stated to havecarried suspended from his watch-guard. Can you remember if he waswearing it in that manner when he came to the house?'

'No, he was not.'

'You are sure of that.'

'Quite sure.'

'Thank you. And now I want to ask you about the search that you havementioned. You say that you went all over the house. Did you go intothe study?'

'No--at least, not until Mr. Hurst had gone to London.'

'When you did go in, was the window fastened?'

'Yes.'

'Could it have been fastened from the outside?'

'No; there is no handle outside.'

'What furniture is there in the study?'

'There is a writing-table, a revolving-chair, two easy chairs, twolarge book-cases, and a wardrobe that Mr. Hurst keeps his overcoatsand hats in.'

'Does the wardrobe lock?'

'Yes.'

'Was it locked when you went in?'

'I'm sure I don't know. I don't go about trying the cupboards anddrawers.'

'What furniture is there in the drawing-room?'

'A cabinet, six or seven chairs, a Chesterfield sofa, a piano, asilver-table, and one or two occasional tables.'

'Is the piano a grand or upright?'

'It is an upright grand.'

'In what position is it placed?'

'It stands across a corner near the window.'

'Is there sufficient room behind it for a man to conceal himself?'

Miss Dobbs was amused and did not dissemble. 'Oh, yes,' she sniggered,'there's plenty of room for a man to hide behind it.'

'When you searched the drawing-room, did you look behind the piano?'

'No, I didn't,' Miss Dobbs replied scornfully.

'Did you look under the sofa?'

'Certainly not!'

'What did you do then?'

'We opened the door and looked into the room. We were not looking fora cat or a monkey; we were looking for a middle-aged gentleman.'

'And am I to take it that your search over the rest of the house wasconducted in a similar manner?'

'Certainly. We looked into the rooms, but we did not search under thebeds or in the cupboards.'

'Are all the rooms in the house in use as living or sleeping rooms?'

'No; there is one room on the second floor that is used as a store andlumber-room, and one on the first floor that Mr. Hurst uses to storetrunks and things that he is not using.'

'Did you look in those rooms when you searched the house?'

'No.'

'Have you looked in them since?'

'I have been in the lumber-room since, but not in the other. It isalways kept locked.'

At this point an ominous flattening became apparent in his lordship'seyelids, but these symptoms passed when Mr. Heath sat down andindicated that he had no further questions to ask.

Miss Dobbs once more prepared to step down from the witness-box whenMr. Loram shot up like a jack-in-the-box.

'You have made certain statements,' said he, 'concerning the scarabwhich Mr. Bellingham was accustomed to wear suspended from his watch-guard. You say that he was not wearing it when he came to Mr. Hurst'shouse on the twenty-third of November, nineteen hundred and two. Areyou quite sure of that?'

'Quite sure.'

'I must ask you to be very careful in your statement on this point.The question is a highly important one. Do you swear that the scarabwas not hanging from his watch-guard?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Did you notice the watch-guard particularly?'

'No; not particularly.'

'Then what makes you sure that the scarab was not attached to it?'

'It couldn't have been.'

'Why could it not?'

'Because if it had been there I should have seen it.'

'What kind of watch-guard was Mr. Bellingham wearing?'

'Oh, an ordinary sort of watch-guard.'

'I mean was it a chain or a ribbon or a strap?'

'A chain, I think--or perhaps a ribbon--or it might have been astrap.'

His lordship flattened his eyelids, but made no further sign and Mr.Loram continued:

'Did you or did you not notice what kind of watch-guard Mr. Bellinghamwas wearing?'

'I did not. Why should I? It was no business of mine.'

'But yet you are quite sure about the scarab?'

'Yes, quite sure.'

'You noticed that then?'

Mr. Loram paused and looked helplessly at the witness; a suppressedtitter arose from the body of the Court, and a faint voice from thebench inquired:

'Are you quite incapable of giving a straightforward answer?'

Miss Dobbs's only reply was to burst into tears; whereupon Mr. Loramabruptly sat down and abandoned his re-examination.

The witness-box vacated by Miss Dobbs was occupied successively by Dr.Norbury, Mr. Hurst and the cloakroom attendant, none of whomcontributed any new facts, but merely corroborated the statements madeby Mr. Jellicoe and the housemaid. Then came the labourer whodiscovered the bones at Sidcup, and who repeated the evidence that hehad given at the inquest, showing that the remains could not have beenlying in the watercress-bed more than two years. Finally Dr. Summerswas called, and, after he had given a brief description of the bonesthat he had examined, was asked by Mr. Loram:

'You have heard the description that Mr. Jellicoe has given of thetestator?'

'I have.'

'Does that description apply to the person whose remains youexamined?'

'In a general way it does.'

'I must ask you for a direct answer--yes or no. Does it apply?'

'Yes. But I ought to say that my estimate of the height of thedeceased is only approximate.'

'Quite so. Judging from your examination of those remains and from Mr.Jellicoe's description, might those remains be the remains of thetestator, John Bellingham?'

'When you examined these remains, Doctor Summers, did you discover anypersonal peculiarities which would enable you to identify them as theremains of any one individual rather than any other individual ofsimilar size, age, and proportions?'

'No. I found nothing that would identify the remains as those of anyparticular individual.'

As Mr. Heath asked no further questions, the witness received hisdismissal, and Mr. Loram informed the Court that that was his case.The judge bowed somnolently, and then Mr. Heath rose to address theCourt on behalf of the respondent. It was not a long speech, nor wasit enriched by any displays of florid rhetoric; it concerned itselfexclusively with a rebutment of the arguments of the counsel for thepetitioner.

Having briefly pointed out that the period of absence was too short togive rise of itself to the presumption of death, Mr. Heath continued:

'The claim therefore rests upon evidence of a positive character. Mylearned friend asserts that the testator is presumably dead, and it isfor him to prove what he has affirmed. Now, has he done this? I submitthat he has not. He has argued with great force and ingenuity that thetestator, being a bachelor, a solitary man without wife or child,dependant or master, public or private office of duty, or any bond,responsibility, or any other condition limiting his freedom of action,had no reason or inducement for absconding. This is my learnedfriend's argument, and he has conducted it with so much skill andingenuity that he has not only succeeded in proving his case; he hasproved a great deal too much. For if it is true, as my learned friendso justly argues, that a man thus unfettered by obligations of anykind has no reason for disappearing, is it not even more true that hehas no reason for not disappearing? My friend has urged that thetestator was at liberty to go where he pleased, when he pleased, andhow he pleased; and that therefore there was no need for him toabscond. I reply, if he was at liberty to go away, whither, when, andhow he pleased, why do we express surprise that he has made use of hisliberty? My learned friend points out that the testator notified tonobody his intention of going away and has acquainted no one with hiswhereabouts; but, I ask, whom should he have notified? He wasresponsible to nobody; there was no one dependent upon him; hispresence or absence was the concern of nobody but himself. Ifcircumstances suddenly arising made it desirable that he should goabroad, why should he not go? I say there was no reason whatever.

'My learned friend has said that the testator went away leaving hisaffairs to take care of themselves. Now, gentlemen, I ask you if thiscan fairly be said of a man whose affairs are, as they have been formany years, in the hands of a highly capable, completely trustworthyagent who is better acquainted with them than the testator himself?Clearly it cannot.

'To conclude this part of the argument: I submit that thecircumstances of the so-called disappearance of the testator presentnothing out of the ordinary. The testator is a man of ample means,without any responsibilities to fetter his movements, and has been inthe constant habit of travelling, often into remote and distantregions. The mere fact that he has been absent somewhat longer; thanusual affords no ground whatever for the drastic proceeding ofpresumption of death and taking possession of his property.

'With reference to the human remains which have been mentioned inconnection with the case I need say but little. The attempt; toconnect them with the testator has failed completely. You, yourselveshave heard Doctor Summers state on oath that they cannot be identifiedas the remains of any particular person. That would seem to dispose ofthem effectually. I must remark upon a very singular point that hasbeen raised by the learned counsel for the petitioner, which is this:

'My learned friend points out that these remains were discovered nearEltham and near Woodford and that the testator was last seen alive atone of these two places. This he considers for some reason to be ahighly significant fact. But I cannot agree with him. If the testatorhad been last seen alive at Woodford and the remains had been found atWoodford, or if he had disappeared from Eltham, and the remains hadbeen found at Eltham, that would have had some significance. But hecan only have been last seen at one of the places, whereas the remainshave been found at both places. Here again my learned friend seems tohave proved too much.

'But I need not occupy your time further. I repeat that, in order tojustify us in presuming the death of the testator, clear and positiveevidence would be necessary. That no such evidence has been broughtforward. Accordingly, seeing that the testator may return at any timeand is entitled to find his property intact, I shall ask you for averdict that will secure to him this measure of ordinary justice.'

At the conclusion of Mr. Heath's speech the judge, as if awakeningfrom a refreshing nap, opened his eyes; and uncommonly shrewd,intelligent eyes they were when the expressive eyelids were dulytucked up out of the way. He commenced by reading over a part of thewill and certain notes--which he appeared to have made in somemiraculous fashion with his eyes shut--and then proceeded to reviewthe evidence and the counsels' arguments for the instruction of thejury.

'Before considering the evidence which you have heard, gentlemen' hesaid, 'it will be well for me to say a few words to you on the generalaspects of the case which is occupying our attention.'

'If a person goes abroad or disappears from his home and his ordinaryplaces of resort and is absent for a long period of time, thepresumption of death arises at the expiration of seven years from thedate on which he was last heard of. That is to say, that the totaldisappearance of an individual for seven years constitutes presumptiveevidence that the said individual is dead; and the presumption can beset aside only by the production of evidence that he was alive at sometime within that period of seven years. But if, on the other hand, itis sought to presume the death of a person who has been absent for ashorter period than seven years, it is necessary to produce suchevidence as shall make it highly probable that the said person isdead. Of course, presumption implies supposition as opposed to actualdemonstration; but, nevertheless, the evidence in such a case must beof a kind that tends to create a very strong belief that death hasoccurred; and I need hardly say that the shorter the period ofabsence, the more convincing must be the evidence.

'In the present case, the testator, John Bellingham, has been absentsomewhat under two years. This is a relatively short period, and initself gives rise to no presumption of death. Nevertheless, death hasbeen presumed in a case where the period of absence was even shorterand the insurance recovered; but here the evidence supporting thebelief in the occurrence of death was exceedingly weighty.

'The testator in this case was a shipmaster, and his disappearance wasaccompanied by the disappearance of the ship and the entire ship'scompany in the course of a voyage from London to Marseilles. The lossof the ship and her crew was the only reasonable explanation of thedisappearance, and, short of actual demonstration, the facts offeredconvincing evidence of the death of all persons on board. I mentionthis case as an illustration. You are not dealing with speculativeprobabilities. You are contemplating a very momentous proceeding, andyou must be very sure of your ground. Consider what it is that you areasked to do.

'The petitioner asks permission to presume the death of the testatorin order that the testator's property may be distributed among thebeneficiaries under the will. The granting of such permission involvesus in the gravest responsibility. An ill-considered decision might beproductive of a serious injustice to the testator, an injustice thatcould never be remedied. Hence it is incumbent upon you to weigh theevidence with the greatest care, to come to no decision without theprofoundest consideration of all the facts.

'The evidence that you have heard divides itself into two parts--thatrelating to the circumstances of the testator's disappearance, andthat relating to certain human remains. In connection with the latterI can only suggest my surprise and regret that the application was notpostponed until the completion of the coroner's inquest, and leave youto consider the evidence. You will bear in mind that Doctor Summershas stated explicitly that the remains cannot be identified as thoseof any particular individual, but that the testator and the unknowndeceased had so many points of resemblance that they might possibly beone and the same person.

'With reference to the circumstances of the disappearance, you haveheard the evidence of Mr. Jellicoe to the effect that the testator hason no previous occasion gone abroad without informing him as to hisproposed destination. But in considering what weight you are to giveto this statement you will bear in mind that when the testator set outfor Paris after his interview with Doctor Norbury he left Mr. Jellicoewithout any information as to his specific destination, his address inParis, or the precise date when he should return, and that Mr.Jellicoe was unable to tell us where the testator went or what was hisbusiness. Mr. Jellicoe was, in fact, for a time without any means oftracing the testator or ascertaining his whereabouts.

'The evidence of the housemaid, Dobbs, and of Mr. Hurst is ratherconfusing. It appears that the testator came to the house, and whenlooked for later was not to be found. A search of the premises showedthat he was not in the house, whence it seems to follow that he musthave left it; but since no one was informed of his intention to leave,and he had expressed the intention of staying to see Mr. Hurst, hisconduct in thus going away surreptitiously must appear somewhateccentric. The point that you have to consider, therefore, is whethera person who is capable of thus departing in a surreptitious andeccentric manner from a house, without giving notice to the servants,is capable also of departing in a surreptitious and eccentric mannerfrom his usual places of resort without giving notice to his friendsor thereafter informing them of his whereabouts.

'The questions, then, gentlemen, that you have to ask yourselvesbefore deciding on your verdict are two: first, Are the circumstancesof the testator's disappearance and his continued absence incongruouswith his habits and personal peculiarities as they are known to you?and second, Are there any facts which indicate in a positive mannerthat the testator is dead? Ask yourselves these questions, gentlemen,and the answers to them, furnished by the evidence that you haveheard, will guide you to your decision.'

Having delivered himself of the above instructions, the judge appliedhimself to the perusal of the will with professional gusto, in whichoccupation he was presently disturbed by the announcement of theforeman of the jury that a verdict had been agreed upon.

The judge sat up and glanced at the jury-box, and when the foremanproceeded to state that 'We find no sufficient reason for presumingthe testator, John Bellingham, to be dead,' he nodded approvingly.Evidently that was his opinion, too, as he was careful to explain whenhe conveyed to Mr. Loram the refusal of the Court to grant thepermission applied for.

The decision was a great relief to me, and also, I think, to MissBellingham; but most of all to her father, who, with instinctive goodmanners, since he could not suppress a smile of triumph, rose andhastily stumped out of the Court, so that the discomfited Hurst shouldnot see him. His daughter and I followed, and as we left the Court sheremarked, with a smile:

'So our pauperism is not, after all, made absolute. There is still achance for us in the Chapter of Accidents--and perhaps even for poorold Uncle John.'

CHAPTER XV. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE

THE morning after the hearing saw me setting forth on my round in morethan usually good spirits. The round itself was but a short one, formy list contained only a couple of 'chronics,' and this, perhaps,contributed to my cheerful outlook on life. But there were otherreasons. The decision of the Court had come as an unexpected reprieveand the ruin of my friends' prospects was at least postponed. Then, Ihad learned that Thorndyke was back from Bristol and wished me to lookin on him; and, finally, Miss Bellingham had agreed to spend this veryafternoon with me, browsing round the galleries at the British Museum.

I had disposed of my two patients by a quarter to eleven, and threeminutes later was striding down Mitre Court, all agog to hear whatThorndyke had to say with reference to my notes on the inquest. The'oak' was open when I arrived at his chambers, and a modest flourishon the little brass knocker of the inner door was answered by myquondam teacher himself.

'How good of you, Berkeley,' he said, shaking hands genially, 'to lookme up so early. I am alone, just looking through the report of theevidence in yesterday's proceedings.'

He placed an easy chair for me, and, gathering up a bundle oftypewritten papers, laid them aside on the table.

'Were you surprised at the decision?' I asked.

'No,' he answered. 'Two years is a short period of absence; but still,it might easily have gone the other way. I am greatly relieved. Therespite gives us time to carry out our investigations without unduehurry.'

'Did you find my notes of any use?' I asked.

'Heath did. Polton handed them to him, and they were invaluable to himfor his cross-examination. I haven't seen them yet; in fact, I haveonly just got them back from him. Let us go through them togethernow.'

He opened a drawer and taking from it my notebook, seated himself, andbegan to read through my notes with grave attention, while I stood andlooked shyly over his shoulder. On the page that contained my sketchesof the Sidcup arm, showing the distribution of the snails' eggs on thebones, he lingered with a faint smile that made me turn hot and red.

'Those sketches look rather footy,' I said; 'but I had to putsomething in my notebook.'

'You did not attach any importance, then, to the facts that theyillustrated?'

'No. The egg-patches were there, so I noted the fact. That's all.'

'I congratulate you, Berkeley. There is not one man in twenty whowould have had the sense to make a careful note of what he considersan unimportant or irrelevant fact; and the investigator who notes onlythose things that appear significant is perfectly useless. He giveshimself no material for reconsideration. But you don't mean that theseegg-patches and worm tubes appeared to you to have no significance atall?'

'Oh, of course, they show the position in which the bones were lying.'

'Exactly. The arm was lying, fully extended, with the dorsal sideuppermost. But we also learn from these egg-patches that the hand hadbeen separated from the arm before it was thrown into the pond; andthere is something very remarkable in that.'

I leaned over his shoulder and gazed at my sketches, amazed at therapidity with which he had reconstructed the limb from my roughdrawings of the individual bones.

'I don't quite see how you arrived at it, though,' I said.

'Well, look at your drawings. The egg-patches are on the dorsalsurface of the scapula, the humerus, and the bones of the fore-arm.But here you have shown six of the bones of the hand: two metacarpals,the os magnum, and three phalanges; and they all have egg-patches onthe palmar surface. Therefore the hand was lying palm upwards.'

'But the hand may have been pronated.'

'If you mean pronated in relation to the arm, that is impossible, forthe position of the egg-patches shows clearly that the bones of thearm were lying in the position of supination. Thus the dorsal surfaceof the arm and the palmar surface of the hand respectively wereuppermost, which is an anatomical impossibility so long as the hand isattached to the arm.'

'But might not the hand have become detached after lying in the pondsome time?'

'No. It could not have been detached until the ligaments had decayed,and if it had been separated after the decay of the soft parts, thebones would have been thrown into disorder. But the egg-patches areall on the palmar surface, showing that the bones were still in theirnormal relative positions. No, Berkeley, that hand was thrown into thepond separately from the arm.'

'But why should it have been?' I asked.

'Ah, there is a very pretty little problem for you to consider. And,meantime, let me tell you that your expedition has been a brilliantsuccess. You are an excellent observer. Your only fault is that whenyou have noted certain facts you don't seem fully to appreciate theirsignificance--which is merely a matter of inexperience. As to thefacts that you have collected, several of them are of primeimportance.'

'I am glad you are satisfied,' said I, 'though I don't see that I havediscovered much excepting those snails' eggs; and they don't seem tohave advanced matters very much.'

'A definite fact, Berkeley, is a definite asset. Perhaps we maypresently find a little space in our Chinese puzzle which this fact ofthe detached hand will just drop into. But, tell me, did you findnothing unexpected or suggestive about those bones--as to their numberand condition, for instance?'

'Well, I thought it a little queer that the scapula and clavicleshould be there. I should have expected him to cut the arm off at theshoulder-joint.'

'Yes,' said Thorndyke; 'so should I; and so it has been done in everycase of dismemberment that I am acquainted with. To an ordinaryperson, the arm seems to join on to the trunk at the shoulder-joint,and that is where he would naturally sever it. What explanation do yousuggest of this unusual mode of severing the arm?'

'Do you think the fellow could have been a butcher?' I asked,remembering Dr. Summers' remark. 'This is the way a shoulder of muttonis taken off.'

'No,' replied Thorndyke. 'A butcher includes the scapula in a shoulderof mutton for a specific purpose, namely, to take off a given quantityof meat. And also, as a sheep has no clavicle, it is the easiest wayto detach the limb. But I imagine a butcher would find himself indifficulties if he attempted to take off a man's arm in that way. Theclavicle would be a new and perplexing feature. Then, too a butcherdoes not deal very delicately with his subject; if he has to divide ajoint, he just cuts through it and does not trouble himself to avoidmarking the bones. But you note here that there is not a singlescratch or score on any one of the bones, not even where the fingerwas removed. Now, if you have ever prepared bones for a museum, as Ihave, you will remember the extreme care that is necessary indisarticulating joints to avoid disfiguring the articular ends of thebones with cuts and scratches.'

'Then you think that the person who dismembered this body must havehad some anatomical knowledge and skill?'

'That is what has been suggested. The suggestion is not mine.'

'Then I infer that you don't agree?'

Thorndyke smiled. 'I am sorry to be so cryptic, Berkeley, but youunderstand that I can't make statements. Still, I am trying to leadyou to make certain inferences from the facts that are in yourpossession.'

'If I make the right inference, will you tell me?' I asked.

'It won't be necessary,' he answered, with the same quiet smile. 'Whenyou have fitted the puzzle together you don't need to be told you havedone it.'

It was most infernally tantalising. I pondered on the problem with ascowl of such intense cogitation that Thorndyke laughed outright.

'It seems to me,' I said, at length, 'that the identity of the remainsis the primary question and that it is a question of fact. It doesn'tseem any use to speculate about it.'

'Exactly. Either these bones are the remains of John Bellingham orthey are not. There will be no doubt on the subject when all the bonesare assembled--if ever they are. And the settlement of that questionwill probably throw light on the further question: Who deposited themin the places in which they were found? But to return to yourobservations: did you gather nothing from the other bones? From thecomplete state of the neck vertebrae, for instance?'

'Well, it did strike me as rather odd that the fellow should have goneto the trouble of separating the atlas from the skull. He must havebeen pretty handy with the scalpel to have done it as cleanly as heseems to have done; but I don't see why he should have gone about thebusiness in the most inconvenient way.'

'You notice the uniformity of method. He has separated the head fromthe spine, instead of cutting through the spine lower down, as mostpersons would have done: he removed the arms with the entire shoulder-girdle, instead of simply cutting them off at the shoulder-joints.Even in the thighs the same peculiarity appears; for in neither casewas the knee-cap found with the thigh-bone, although it seems to havebeen searched for. Now the obvious way to divide the leg is to cutthrough the patellar ligament, leaving the knee-cap attached to thethigh. But in this case, the knee-cap appears to have been leftattached to the shank. Can you explain why this person should haveadopted this unusual and rather inconvenient method? Can you suggest amotive for this procedure, or can you think of any circumstances whichmight lead a person to adopt this method by preference?'

'It seems as if he wished, for some reason, to divide the body intodefinite anatomical regions.'

Thorndyke chuckled. 'You are not offering that suggestion as anexplanation, are you? Because it would require more explaining thanthe original problem. And it is not even true. Anatomically speaking,the knee-cap appertains to the thigh rather than to the shank. It is asesamoid bone belonging to the thigh muscles; yet in this case it hasbeen left attached, apparently, to the shank. No, Berkeley, that catwon't jump. Our unknown operator was not preparing a skeleton as amuseum specimen; he was dividing a body up into convenient sizedportions for the purpose of conveying them to various ponds. Now whatcircumstances might have led him to divide it in this peculiarmanner?'

'I am afraid I have no suggestion to offer. Have you?'

Thorndyke suddenly lapsed into ambiguity. 'I think,' he said, 'it ispossible to conceive such circumstances, and so, probably, will you ifyou think it over.'

'Did you gather anything of importance from the evidence at theinquest?' I asked.

'It is difficult to say,' he replied. 'The whole of my conclusions inthis case are based on what is virtually circumstantial evidence. Ihave not one single fact of which I can say that it admits only of asingle interpretation. Still, it must be remembered that even the mostinconclusive facts, if sufficiently multiplied, yield a highlyconclusive total. And my little pile of evidence is growing, particleby particle; but we mustn't sit here gossiping at this hour of theday; I have to consult with Marchmont and you say that you have anearly afternoon engagement. We can walk together as far as FleetStreet.'

A minute or two later we went our respective ways, Thorndyke towardsLombard Street and I to Fetter Lane, not unmindful of those comingevents that were casting so agreeable a shadow before them.

There was only one message awaiting me, and when Adolphus haddelivered it (amidst mephitic fumes that rose from the basement,premonitory of fried plaice), I pocketed my stethoscope and betookmyself to Gunpowder Alley, the aristocratic abode of my patient,joyfully threading the now familiar passages of Gough Square and WineOffice Court, and meditating pleasantly on the curious literaryflavour that pervades these little-known regions. For the shade of theauthor of 'Rasselas' still seems to haunt the scenes of his Titaniclabours and his ponderous but homely and temperate rejoicings. Everycourt and alley whispers of books and of the making of books: formesof type, trundled noisily on trolleys by ink-smeared boys, salute thewayfarer at odd corners; piles of strawboard, rolls or bales of paper,drums of printing-ink or roller composition stand on the pavementoutside dark entries; basement windows give glimpses into Hadeancaverns tenanted by legions of printer's devils; and the very air ischarged with the hum of press and with odours of glue and paste andoil. The entire neighbourhood is given up to the printer and binder;and even my patient turned out to be a guillotine-knife grinder--aferocious and revolutionary calling strangely at variance with hisharmless appearance and meek bearing.

I was in good time at my tryst, despite the hindrances of fried plaiceand invalid guillotinists; but, early as I was, Miss Bellingham wasalready waiting in the garden--she had been filling a bowl withflowers--ready to sally forth.

'It is quite like old times,' she said, as we turned into Fetter Lane,'to be going to the Museum together. It brings back the Tell el Amarnatablets and all your kindness and unselfish labour, suppose we shallwalk there to-day?'

'Certainly,' I replied; 'I am not going to share your society with thecommon mortals who ride in omnibuses. That would be sheer, simplewaste. Besides, it is more companionable to walk.'

'Yes, it is; and the bustle of the streets makes one more appreciativeof the quiet of the Museum. What are we going to look at when we getthere?'

'You must decide that,' I replied. 'You know the collection muchbetter than I do.'

'Well, now,' she mused, 'I wonder what you would like to see; or, inother words, what I should like you to see. The old English pottery israther fascinating, especially the Fulham ware. I rather think I shalltake you to see that.'

She reflected a while, and then, just as we reached the gate of StapleInn, she stopped and looked thoughtfully down the Gray's Inn Road.

'You have taken a great interest in our "case" as Doctor Thorndykecalls it. Would you like to see the churchyard where Uncle John wishedto be buried? It is a little out of our way, but we are not in ahurry, are we?'

I, certainly, was not. Any deviation that might prolong our walk waswelcome, and, as to the place--why, all places were alike to me ifonly she were by my side. Besides, the churchyard was really of someinterest, since it was undoubtedly the 'exciting cause' of theobnoxious paragraph two of the will. I accordingly expressed a desireto make its acquaintance, and we crossed to the entrance to Gray's InnRoad.

'Do you ever try,' she asked, as we turned down the dingythoroughfare, 'to picture familiar places as they looked a couple ofhundred years ago?'

'Yes,' I answered, 'and very difficult I find it. One has tomanufacture the materials for reconstruction, and then the presentaspect of the place will keep obtruding itself. But some places areeasier to reconstitute than others.'

'That is what I find,' said she. 'Now Holborn, for example, is quiteeasy to reconstruct, though I daresay the imaginary form isn't a bitlike the original. But there are fragments left, like Staple Inn andthe front of Gray's Inn; and then one has seen prints of the oldMiddle Row and some of the taverns, so that one has some material withwhich to help out one's imagination. But this road we are walking inalways baffles me. It looks so old and yet is, for the most part, sonew that I find it impossible to make a satisfactory picture of itsappearance, say, when Sir Roger de Coverley might have strolled inGray's Inn Walks, or farther back, when Francis Bacon had chambers inthe Inn.'

'I imagine,' said I, 'that part of the difficulty is in the mixedcharacter of the neighbourhood. Here, on the one side, is old Gray'sInn, not much changed since Bacon's time--his chambers are still to beseen, I think, over the gateway; and there, on the Clerkenwell side,is a dense and rather squalid neighbourhood which has grown up over aregion partly rural and wholly fugitive in character. Places likeBagnigge Wells and Hockley in the Hole would not have had manybuildings that were likely to survive; and in the absence of survivingspecimens the imagination hasn't much to work from.'

'I daresay you are right,' said she. 'Certainly, the purlieus of oldClerkenwell present a very confused picture to me; whereas, in thecase of an old street like, say, Great Ormond Street, one has only tosweep away the modern buildings and replace them with glorious oldhouses like the few that remain, dig up the roadway and pavements andlay down cobble-stones, plant a few wooden posts, hang up one or twooil-lamps, and the transformation is complete. And a very delightfultransformation it is.'

'Very delightful; which, by the way, is a melancholy thought. For weought to be doing better work than our forefathers; whereas what weactually do is to pull down the old buildings, clap the doorways,porticoes, panelling, and mantels in our museums, and then run upsomething inexpensive and useful and deadly uninteresting in theirplace.'

My companion looked at me and laughed softly. 'For a naturallycheerful, and even gay young man,' said she, 'you are most amazinglypessimistic. The mantle of Jeremiah--if he ever wore one--seems tohave fallen on you, but without in the least impairing-your goodspirits excepting in regard to matters architectural.'

'I have much to be thankful for,' said I. 'Am I not taken to theMuseum by a fair lady? And does she not stay me with mummy cases andcomfort me with crockery?'

'Pottery,' she corrected; and then as we met a party of grave-lookingwomen emerging from a side-street, she said: 'I suppose these are ladymedical students.'

'Yes, on their way to the Royal Free Hospital. Note the gravity oftheir demeanour and contrast it with the levity of the male student.'

'I was doing so,' she answered, 'and wondering why professional womenare usually so much more serious than men.'

'Perhaps,' I suggested, 'it is a matter of selection. A peculiar typeof woman is attracted to the professions, whereas every man has toearn his living as a matter of course.'

'Yes, I daresay that is the explanation. This is our turning.'

We passed into Heathcote Street, at the end of which was an open gategiving entrance to one of those disused and metamorphosed burial-grounds that are to be met with in the older districts of London; inwhich the dispossessed dead are jostled into corners to make room forthe living. Many of the headstones were still standing, and others,displaced to make room for asphalted walks and seats, were rangedaround by the walls exhibiting inscriptions made meaningless by theirremoval. It was a pleasant enough place on this summer afternoon,contrasted with the dingy streets whence we had come, though its grasswas faded and yellow and the twitter of the birds in the trees mingledwith the hideous Board-school drawl of the children who played aroundthe seats and the few remaining tombs.

'So this is the last resting-place of the illustrious house ofBellingham,' said I.

'Yes; and we are not the only distinguished people who repose in thisplace. The daughter of no less a person than Richard Cromwell isburied here; the tomb is still standing--but perhaps you have beenhere before, and know it.'

'I don't think I have ever been here before; and yet there issomething about the place that seems familiar.' I looked around,cudgelling my brains for the key to the dimly reminiscent sensationsthat the place evoked; until, suddenly, I caught sight of a group ofbuildings away to the west, enclosed within a wall heightened by awooden trellis.

'Yes, of course!' I exclaimed. 'I remember the place now. I have neverbeen in this part before, but in that enclosure beyond, which opens atthe end of Henrietta Street, there used to be and may be still, forall I know, a school of anatomy, at which I attended in my first year;in fact, I did my first dissection there.'

'There was a certain gruesome appropriateness in the position of theschool,' remarked Miss Bellingham. 'It would have been reallyconvenient in the days of the resurrection men. Your material wouldhave been delivered at your very door. Was it a large school?'

'The attendance varied according to the time of the year. Sometimes Iworked there quite alone. I used to let myself in with a key and hoistmy subject out of a sort of sepulchral tank by means of a chaintackle. It was a ghoulish business. You have no idea how awful thebody used to look to my unaccustomed eyes, as it rose slowly out ofthe tank. It was like the resurrection scenes that you see on some oldtombstones, where the deceased is shown rising out of his coffin whilethe skeleton, Death, falls vanquished with his dart shattered and hiscrown toppling off.

'I remember, too, that the demonstrator used to wear a blue apron,which created a sort of impression of a cannibal butcher's shop. But Iam afraid I am shocking you.'

'No you are not. Every profession has its unpresentable aspects, whichought not to be seen by outsiders. Think of the sculptor's studio andof the sculptor himself when he is modelling a large figure or groupin the clay. He might be a bricklayer or a road-sweeper if you judgeby his appearance. This is the tomb I was telling you about.'

We halted before the plain coffer of stone, weathered and wasted byage, but yet kept in decent repair by some pious hands, and read theinscription, setting forth with modest pride, that here reposed Anna,sixth daughter of Richard Cromwell, 'The Protector.' It was a simplemonument and commonplace enough, with the crude severity of theascetic age to which it belonged. But still, it carried the mind backto those stirring times when the leafy shades of Gray's Inn Lane musthave resounded with the clank of weapons and the tramp of armed men;when this bald recreation-ground was a rustic churchyard, standingamidst green fields and hedgerows, and countrymen leading their pack-horses into London through the Lane would stop to look in over thewooden gate.

Miss Bellingham looked at me critically as I stood thus reflecting,and presently remarked: 'I think you and I have a good many mentalhabits in common.'

'I looked up inquiringly, and she continued: 'I notice that an oldtombstone seems to set you meditating. So it does me. When I look atan ancient monument, and especially an old headstone, I find myselfalmost unconsciously retracing the years to the date that is writtenon the stone. Why do you think that is? Why should a monument be sostimulating to the imagination? And why should a common headstone bemore so than any other?'

'I suppose it is,' I answered reflectively, 'that a churchyardmonument is a peculiarly personal thing and appertains in a peculiarway to a particular time. And the circumstance that it has stooduntouched by the passing years while everything around has changed,helps the imagination to span the interval. And the common headstone,the memorial of some dead and gone farmer or labourer who lived anddied in the village hard by, is still more intimate and suggestive.The rustic, childish sculpture of the village mason and the artlessdoggerel of the village schoolmaster, bring back the time and placeand the conditions of life more vividly than the more scholarlyinscriptions and the more artistic enrichments of monuments of greaterpretensions. But where are your own family tombstones?'

'They are over in that farther corner. There is an intelligent, butinopportune, person apparently copying the epitaphs. I wish he wouldgo away. I want to show them to you.'

I now noticed, for the first time, an individual engaged, notebook inhand, in making a careful survey of a group of old headstones.Evidently he was making a copy of the inscriptions, for not only washe poring attentively over the writing on the face of the stone, butnow and again he helped out his vision by running his fingers over theworn lettering.

'That is my grandfather's tombstone that he is copying now,' said MissBellingham; and even as she spoke, the man turned and directed asearching glance at us with a pair of keen, spectacled eyes.

Simultaneously we uttered an exclamation of surprise; for theinvestigator was Mr. Jellicoe.

CHAPTER XVI. O ARTEMIDORUS, FAREWELL!

WHETHER or not Mr. Jellicoe was surprised to see us, it is impossibleto say. His countenance (which served the ordinary purposes of a face,inasmuch as it contained the principal organs of special sense, withinlets to the alimentary and respiratory tracts) was, as an apparatusfor the expression of the emotions, a total failure. To a thought-reader it would have been about as helpful as the face carved upon thehandle of an umbrella; a comparison suggested, perhaps, by a certainresemblance to such an object. He advanced, holding open his notebookand pencil, and having saluted us with a stiff bow and an old-fashioned flourish of his hat, shook hands rheumatically and waitedfor us to speak.

'This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Jellicoe,' said Miss Bellingham.

'It is very good of you to say so,' he replied.

'And quite a coincidence--that we should all happen to come here onthe same day.'

'A coincidence, certainly,' he admitted, 'and if we all happened notto come--which must have occurred frequently--that also would havebeen a coincidence.'

'I suppose it would,' said she, 'but I hope we are not interruptingyou.'

'Thank you, no. I had just finished when I had the pleasure ofperceiving you.'

You were making some notes in reference to the case, I imagine,' saidI. It was an impertinent question, put with malice aforethought forthe mere pleasure of hearing him evade it.

'The case?' he repeated. 'You are referring, perhaps, to Stevensversus the Parish Council?'

'I think Doctor Berkeley was referring to the case of my uncle'swill,' Miss Bellingham said quite gravely, though with a suspiciousdimpling about the corners of her mouth.

'Indeed,' said Mr. Jellicoe. 'There is a case, is there; a suit?'

'I mean the proceedings instituted by Mr. Hurst.'

'Oh, but that was merely an application to the Court, and is,moreover, finished and done with. At least, so I understand. I speak,of course, subject to correction; I am not acting for Mr. Hurst, youwill be pleased to remember. As a matter of fact,' he continued, aftera brief pause, 'I was just refreshing my memory as to the wording ofthe inscriptions on these stones, especially that of your grandfather,Francis Bellingham. It has occurred to me that if it should appear bythe finding of the coroner's jury that your uncle is deceased, itwould be proper and decorous that some memorial should be placed here.But, as the burial ground is closed, there might be some difficultyabout erecting a new monument, whereas there would probably be none inadding an inscription to one already existing. Hence theseinvestigations. For if the inscriptions on your grandfather's stonehad set forth that "here rests the body of Francis Bellingham," itwould have been manifestly improper to add "also that of JohnBellingham, son of the above". Fortunately the inscription was morediscreetly drafted, merely recording the fact that this monument is"sacred to the memory of the said Francis", and not committing itselfas to the whereabouts of the remains. But perhaps I am interruptingyou.'

'No, not at all,' replied Miss Bellingham (which was grossly untrue;he was interrupting me most intolerably); 'we were going to theBritish Museum and just looked in here on our way.'

'Ha,' said Mr. Jellicoe, 'now, I happen to be going to the Museum too,to see Doctor Norbury. I suppose that is another coincidence?'

'Certainly it is,' Miss Bellingham replied; and then she asked: 'Shallwe walk together?' and the old curmudgeon actually said 'yes'--confound him!

We returned to the Gray's Inn Road, where, as there was now room forus to walk abreast, I proceeded to indemnify myself for the lawyer'sunwelcome company by leading the conversation back to the subject ofthe missing man.

'Was there anything, Mr. Jellicoe, in Mr. John Bellingham's state ofhealth that would make it probable that he might die suddenly?'

The lawyer looked at me suspiciously for a few moments and thenremarked:

'You seem to be greatly interested in John Bellingham and hisaffairs.'

'I am. My friends are deeply concerned in them, and the case itself isof more than common interest from a professional point of view.'

'And what is the bearing of this particular question?'

'Surely it is obvious,' said I. 'If a missing man is known to havesuffered from some affection, such as heart disease, aneurism, orarterial degeneration, likely to produce sudden death, that fact willsurely be highly material to the question as to whether he is probablydead or alive.'

'No doubt you are right,' said Mr. Jellicoe. 'I have little knowledgeof medical affairs, but doubtless you are right. As to the questionitself, I am Mr. Bellingham's lawyer, not his doctor. His health is amatter that lies outside my jurisdiction. But you heard my evidence inCourt, to the effect that the testator appeared, to my untutoredobservation, to be a healthy man. I can say no more now.'

'If the question is of any importance,' said Miss Bellingham, 'Iwonder they did not call his doctor and settle it definitely. My ownimpression is that he was--or is--rather a strong and sound man. Hecertainly recovered very quickly and completely after his accident.'

'What accident was that?' I asked.

'Oh, hasn't my father told you? It occurred while he was staying withus. He slipped from a kerb and broke one of the bones of the leftankle--somebody's fracture--'

'Pott's?'

'Yes; that was the name--Pott's fracture; and he broke both his knee-caps as well. Sir Morgan Bennet had to perform an operation, or hewould have been a cripple for life. As it was, he was about again in afew weeks, apparently none the worse excepting for a slight weaknessof the left ankle.'

'Could he walk upstairs?' I asked.

'Oh, yes; and play golf and ride a bicycle.'

'You are sure he broke both knee-caps?'

'Quite sure. I remember that it was mentioned as an uncommon injury,and that Sir Morgan seemed quite pleased with him for doing it.'

'That sounds rather libellous; but I expect he was pleased with theresult of the operation. He might well be.'

Here there was a brief lull in the conversation, and, even as I wastrying to think of a poser for Mr. Jellicoe, that gentleman took theopportunity to change the subject.

'Are you going to the Egyptian rooms?' he asked.

'No,' replied Miss Bellingham; 'we are going to look at the pottery.'

'Ancient or modern?'

'That old Fulham ware is what chiefly interests us at present; that ofthe seventeenth century. I don't know whether you call that ancient ormodern.'

'Neither do I,' said Mr. Jellicoe. 'Antiquity and modernity are termsthat have no fixed connotation. They are purely relative and theirapplication in a particular instance has to be determined by a sort ofsliding-scale. To a furniture collector, a Tudor chair or a Jacobeanchest is ancient; to an architect, their period is modern, whereas aneleventh-century church is ancient; but to an Egyptologist, accustomedto remains of a vast antiquity, both are products of modern periodsseparated by an insignificant interval. And, I suppose,' he addedreflectively, 'that to a geologist, the traces of the very earliestdawn of human history appertain only to the recent period. Conceptionsof time, like all other conceptions, are relative.'

'You would appear to be a disciple of Herbert Spencer,' I remarked.

'I am a disciple of Arthur Jellicoe, sir,' he retorted. And I believedhim.

By the time we had reached the Museum he had become almost genial;and, if less amusing in this frame, he was so much more instructiveand entertaining that I refrained from baiting him, and permitted himto discuss his favourite topic unhindered, especially since mycompanion listened with lively interest. Nor, when we entered thegreat hall, did he relinquish possession of us, and we followedsubmissively, as he led the way past the winged bulls of Nineveh andthe great seated statues, until we found ourselves, almost without theexercise of our volition, in the upper room amidst the glaring mummycases that had witnessed the birth of my friendship with RuthBellingham.

'Before I leave you,' said Mr. Jellicoe, 'I should like to show youthat mummy that we were discussing the other evening; the one, youremember, that my friend, John Bellingham, presented to the Museum alittle time before his disappearance. The point that I mentioned isonly a trivial one, but it may become of interest hereafter if anyplausible explanation should be forthcoming.' He led us along the roomuntil we arrived at the case containing John Bellingham's gift, wherehe halted and gazed in at the mummy with the affectionatereflectiveness of the connoisseur.

'The bitumen coating was what we were discussing, Miss Bellingham,'said he. 'You have seen it, of course.'

'Yes,' she answered. 'It is a dreadful disfigurement, isn't it?'

'Aesthetically it is to be deplored, but it adds a certain speculativeinterest to the specimen. You notice that the black coating leaves theprincipal decoration and the whole of the inscription untouched, whichis precisely the part that one would expect to find covered up;whereas the feet and the back, which probably bore no writing, arequite thickly crusted. If you stoop down, you can see that the bitumenwas daubed freely into the lacings of the back, where it served nopurpose, so that even the strings are embedded.' He stooped as hespoke, and peered up inquisitively at the back of the mummy, where itwas visible between the supports.

'Has Doctor Norbury any explanation to offer?' asked Miss Bellingham.

'None whatever,' replied Mr. Jellicoe. 'He finds it as great a mysteryas I do. But he thinks that we may get some suggestion from theDirector when he comes back. He is a very great authority, as youknow, and a practical excavator of great experience too. I mustn'tstay here talking of these things, and keeping you from your pottery.Perhaps I have stayed too long already. If I have I ask your pardon,and I will now wish you a very good afternoon.' With a sudden returnto his customary wooden impassivity, he shook hands with us, bowedstiffly, and took himself off towards the curator's office.

'What a strange man that is,' said Miss Bellingham, as Mr. Jellicoedisappeared through the doorway at the end of the room, 'or perhaps Ishould say, a strange being, for I can hardly think of him as a man. Ihave never met any other human creature at all like him.'

'He is certainly a queer old fogey,' I agreed.

'Yes, but there is something more than that. He is so emotionless, soremote and aloof from all mundane concerns. He moves among ordinarymen and women, but as a mere presence, an unmoved spectator of theiractions, quite dispassionate and impersonal.'

'Yes; he is astonishingly self-contained; in fact, he seems, as yousay, to go to and fro among men, enveloped in a sort of infernalatmosphere of his own, like Marley's ghost. But he is lively and humanenough as soon as the subject of Egyptian antiquities is broached.'

'Lively, but not human. He is always, to me, quite unhuman. Even whenhe is most interested, and even enthusiastic, he is a merepersonification of knowledge. Nature ought to have furnished him withan ibis' head like Tahuti; then he would have looked his part.'

'He would have made a rare sensation in Lincoln's Inn if he had,' saidI; and we both laughed heartily at the imaginary picture of TahutiJellicoe, slender-beaked and top-hatted, going about his business inLincoln's Inn and the Law Courts.

Insensibly, as we talked, we had drawn near to the mummy ofArtemidorus, and now my companion halted before the case with herthoughtful grey eyes bent dreamily on the face that looked out at us.I watched her with reverent admiration. How charming she looked as shestood with her sweet, grave face turned so earnestly to the object ofher mystical affection! How dainty and full of womanly dignity andgrace! And then, suddenly it was borne in upon me that a great changehad come over her since the day of our first meeting. She had grownyounger, more girlish, and more gentle. At first she had seemed mucholder than I; a sad-faced woman, weary, solemn, enigmatic, almostgloomy, with a bitter, ironic humour and a bearing distant and cold.Now she was only maidenly and sweet; tinged, it is true, with acertain seriousness, but frank and gracious and wholly lovable.

Could the change be due to our friendship? As I asked myself thequestion, my heart leaped with a new hope. I yearned to tell her allthat she was to me--all that I hoped we might be to one another in theyears to come.

At length I ventured to break in upon her reverie.

'What are you thinking about so earnestly, fair lady?'

She turned quickly with a bright smile and sparkling eyes that lookedfrankly into mine. 'I was wondering,' said she, 'if he was jealous ofmy new friend. But what a baby I am to talk such nonsense!'

She laughed softly and happily with just an adorable hint of shyness.

'Why should he be jealous?' I asked.

'Well, you see, before--we were friends, he had me all to himself. Ihave never had a man friend before--except my father--and no reallyintimate friend at all. And I was very lonely in those days, after ourtroubles had befallen. I am naturally solitary, but still, I am only agirl; I am not a philosopher. So when I felt very lonely, I used tocome here and look at Artemidorus and make believe that he knew allthe sadness of my life and sympathised with me. It was very silly, Iknow, but yet, somehow it was a real comfort to me.'

'It was not silly of you at all. He must have been a good man, agentle, sweet-faced man who had won the love of those who knew him, asthis beautiful memorial tells; and it was wise and good of you tosweeten the bitterness of your life with the fragrance of this humanlove that blossoms in the dust after the lapse of centuries. No, youwere not silly, and Artemidorus is not jealous of your new friend.'

'Are you sure?' She still smiled as she asked the question, but wassoft--almost tender--and there was a note of whimsical anxiety in hervoice.

'Quite sure. I give you my confident assurance.' She laughed gaily.

'Then,' said she, 'I am satisfied, for I am sure you know. But here isa mighty telepathist who can read the thoughts even of a mummy. A mostformidable companion. But tell me how you know.'

'I know because it is he who gave you to me to be my friend. Don't youremember?'

'Yes, I remember,' she answered softly. 'It was when you were sosympathetic with my foolish whim that I felt we were really friends.'

'And I, when you confided your pretty fancy to me, thanked you for thegift of your friendship, and treasured it, and do still treasure it,above everything on earth.'

She looked at me quickly with a sort of nervousness in her manner, andcast down her eyes. Then, after a few moments' almost embarrassedsilence, as if to bring back our talk to a less emotional plane, shesaid:

'Do you notice the curious way in which this memorial divides itselfup into two parts?'

'How do you mean?' I asked, a little disconcerted by the suddendescent.

'I mean that there is a part of it that is purely decorative and apart that is expressive or emotional. You notice that the generaldesign and scheme of decoration, although really Greek in feeling,follows rigidly the Egyptian conventions. But the portrait is entirelyin the Greek manner, and when they came to that pathetic farewell, j'-'it had to be spoken in their own tongue, written in their ownfamiliar characters.'

'Yes. I have noticed that and admired the taste with which they havekept the inscription so inconspicuous as not to clash with thedecoration. An obtrusive inscription in Greek characters would havespoiled the consistency of the whole scheme.'

'Yes, it would.' She assented absently as if she were thinking ofsomething else, and once more gazed thoughtfully at the mummy. Iwatched her with deep content: noted the lovely contour of her cheek,the soft masses of hair that strayed away so gracefully from her brow,and thought her the most wonderful creature that had ever trod theearth. Suddenly she looked at me reflectively.

'I wonder,' she said, 'what made me tell you about Artemidorus. It wasa rather silly, childish sort of make-believe, and I wouldn't havetold anyone else for the world; not even my father. How did I knowthat you would sympathise and understand?'

She asked the question in all simplicity with her serious grey eyeslooking inquiringly into mine. And the answer came to me in a flash,with the beating of my own heart.

'I will tell you how you know, Ruth,' I whispered passionately. 'Itwas because I loved you more than anyone else in the world has everloved you, and you felt my love in your heart and called it sympathy.'

I stopped short, for she had blushed scarlet, and then turned deathlypale. And now she looked at me wildly, almost with terror.

'Have I shocked you, Ruth dearest?' I exclaimed penitently, 'have Ispoken too soon? If I have, forgive me. But I had to tell you. I havebeen eating my heart out for love of you for I don't know how long. Ithink I have loved you from the first day we met. Perhaps I shouldn'thave spoken yet, but, Ruth dear, if you only knew what a sweet girlyou are, you wouldn't blame me.'

'I don't blame you,' she said, almost in a whisper; 'I blame myself. Ihave been a bad friend to you, who have been so loyal and loving tome. I ought not to have let this happen. For it can't be, Paul; Ican't say what you want me to say. We can never be anything more toone another than friends.'

A cold hand seemed to grasp my heart--a horrible fear that I had lostall that I cared for--all that made life desirable.

'Why can't we?' I asked. 'Do you mean that--that the gods have beengracious to some other man?'

'Then it is only that you don't love me yet. Of course you don't. Whyshould you? But you will, dear, some day. And I will wait patientlyuntil that day comes and not trouble you with entreaties. I will waitfor you as Jacob waited for Rachel; and as the long years seemed tohim but as a few days because of the love he bore her, so it shall bewith me, if only you will not send me away quite without hope.'

She was looking down, white-faced, with a hardening of the lips as ifshe were in bodily pain. 'You don't understand,' she whispered. Itcan't be--it can never be. There is something that makes itimpossible, now and always. I can't tell you more than that.'

But, Ruth dearest,' I pleaded despairingly, 'may it not becomepossible some day? Can it not be made possible? I can wait, but Ican't give you up. Is there no chance whatever that this obstacle maybe removed?'

'Very little, I fear. Hardly any. No, Paul; it is hopeless, and Ican't bear to talk about it. Let me go now. Let us say good-bye hereand see one another no more for a while. Perhaps we may be friendsagain some day--when you have forgiven me.'

'Forgiven you, dearest!' I exclaimed. 'There is nothing to forgive.And we are friends, Ruth. Whatever happens, you are the dearest friendI have on earth, or can ever have.'

'Thank you, Paul,' she said faintly. 'You are very good to me. But letme go, please. I must be alone.'

4 She held out a trembling hand, and, as I took it, I was shocked tosee how terribly agitated and ill she looked.

'May I not come with you, dear?' I pleaded.

'No, no!' she exclaimed breathlessly; 'I must go away by myself. Iwant to be alone. Good-bye.'

'Before I let you go, Ruth--if you must go--I must have a most solemnpromise from you.'

Her sad grey eyes met mine and her lips quivered with an unspokenquestion.

'You must promise me,' I went on, 'that if ever this barrier thatparts us should be removed, you will let me know instantly. Rememberthat I love you always, and that I am waiting for you always on thisside of the grave.'

She caught her breath in a quick little sob, and pressed my hand.

'Yes,' she whispered: 'I promise. Good-bye.'

She pressed my hand again and was gone; and, as I gazed at the emptydoorway through which she had passed, I caught a glimpse of herreflection in a glass on the landing, where she had paused for amoment to wipe her eyes. I felt it, in a manner, indelicate to haveseen her, and turned away my head quickly; and yet I was conscious ofa certain selfish satisfaction in the sweet sympathy that her griefbespoke.

But now that she was gone a horrible sense of desolation descended onme. Only now, by the consciousness of irreparable loss, did I begin torealise the meaning of this passion of love that had stolen unawaresinto my life. How it had glorified the present and spread a glamour ofdelight over the dimly considered future: how all pleasures anddesires, hopes and ambitions, had converged upon it as a focus; how ithad stood out as the one great reality behind which the othercircumstances of life were as a background, shimmering, half seen,immaterial and unreal. And now it was gone--lost, as it seemed, beyondhope; and that which was left to me was but the empty frame from whichthe picture had vanished.

I have no idea how long I stood rooted to the spot where she had leftme, wrapped in a dull consciousness of pain, immersed in a half-numbreverie. Recent events flitted, dream-like, through my mind; our happylabours in the reading-room; our first visit to the Museum; and thispresent day that had opened so brightly and with such joyous promise.One by one these phantoms of a vanished happiness came and went.Occasional visitors sauntered into the room--but the galleries weremostly empty that day--gazed inquisitively at my motionless figure,and went their way. And still the dull, intolerable ache in my breastwent on, the only vivid consciousness that was left to me.

Presently I raised my eyes and met those of the portrait. The sweet,pensive face of the old Greek settler looked out at me wistfully asthough he would offer comfort; as though he would tell me that he,too, had known sorrow when he lived his life in the sunny Fayyum. Anda subtle consolation, like the faint scent of old rose leaves, seemedto exhale from that friendly face that had looked on the birth of myhappiness and had seen it wither and fade. I turned away, at last,with a silent farewell; and when I looked back, he seemed to speed meon my way with gentle valediction.

CHAPTER XVII. THE ACCUSING FINGER

OF my wanderings after I left the Museum on that black and dismal diesirie, I have but a dim recollection. But I must have travelled a quiteconsiderable distance, since it wanted an hour or two to the time forreturning to the surgery, and I spent the interval walking swiftlythrough streets and squares, unmindful of the happenings around,intent only on my present misfortune, and driven by a natural impulseto seek relief in bodily exertion. For mental distress sets up, as itwere, a sort of induced current of physical unrest; a beneficentarrangement, by which a dangerous excess of emotional excitement maybe transformed into motor energy, and so safely got rid of. The motorapparatus acts as a safety-valve to the psychical; and if the engineraces for a while, with the onset of a bodily fatigue the emotionalpressure-gauge returns to a normal reading.

And so it was with me. At first I was conscious of nothing but a senseof utter bereavement, of the shipwreck of all my hopes. But, bydegrees, as I threaded my way among the moving crowds, I came to abetter and more worthy frame of mind. After all, I had lost nothingthat I had ever had. Ruth was still all that she had ever been to me--perhaps even more; and if that had been a rich endowment yesterday,why not to-day also? And how unfair it would be to her if I shouldmope and grieve over a disappointment that was no fault of hers andfor which there was no remedy! Thus I reasoned with myself, and tosuch purpose that, by the time I reached Fetter Lane, my dejection hadcome to quite manageable proportions and I had formed the resolutionto get back to the status quo ante helium as soon as possible.

About eight o'clock, as I was sitting alone in the consulting-room,gloomily persuading myself that I was now quite resigned to theinevitable, Adolphus brought me a registered packet, at thehandwriting on which my heart gave such a bound that I had much ado tosign the receipt. As soon as Adolphus had retired (with undissembledcontempt of the shaky signature) I tore open the packet, and as I drewout a letter a tiny box dropped on the table.

The letter was all too short, and I devoured it over and over againwith the eagerness of a condemned man reading a reprieve:

'MY DEAR PAUL.

'Forgive me for leaving you so abruptly this afternoon, and leavingyou so unhappy, too. I am more sane and reasonable now, and so sendyou greeting and beg you not to grieve for that which can never be. Itis quite impossible, dear friend, and I entreat you, as you care forme, never speak of it again; never again to make me feel that I cangive you so little when you have given so much. And do not try to seeme for a little while. I shall miss your visits, and so will myfather, who is very fond of you; but it is better that we should notmeet, until we can take up our old relations--if that can ever be.

'I am sending you a little keepsake in case we should drift apart onthe eddies of life. It is the ring that I told you about--the onethat my uncle save me. Perhaps you may be able to wear it as you havea small hand, but in any case keep it in remembrance of ourfriendship. The device on it is the Eye of Osiris, a mystic symbol forwhich I have a sentimentally superstitious affection, as also had mypoor uncle, who actually bore it tattooed in scarlet on his breast. Itsignifies that the great judge of the dead looks down on men to seethat justice is done and that truth prevails. So I commend you to thegood Osiris; may his eye be upon you, ever watchful over your welfarein the absence of

'Your affectionate friend.

'RUTH.'

It was a sweet letter, I thought, even if it carried little comfort;quiet and reticent like its writer, but with an undertone ofaffection. I laid it down at length, and, taking the ring from itsbox, examined it fondly. Though but a copy, it had all the quaintnessand feeling of the antique original, and, above all, it was fragrantwith the spirit of the giver. Dainty and delicate, wrought of silverand gold, with an inlay of copper, I would not have exchanged it forthe Koh-i-noor; and when I had slipped it on my finger its tiny eye ofblue enamel looked up at me so friendly and companionable that I feltthe glamour of the old-world superstition stealing over me too.

Not a single patient came in this evening, which was well for me (andalso for the patient), as I was able forthwith to write in reply along letter; but this I shall spare the long-suffering readerexcepting its concluding paragraph:

'And now, dearest, I have said my say; once for all I have said it,and I will not open my mouth on the subject again (I am not actuallyopening it now) "until the times do alter". And if the times do neveralter

--if it shall come to pass, in due course, that we two shall sit sideby side, white-haired, and crinkly-nosed, and lean our poor old chinsupon our sticks and mumble and gibber amicably over the things thatmight have been if the good Osiris had come up to the scratch--I willstill be content, because your friendship, Ruth, is better thananother woman's love. So you see, I have taken my gruel and come up tolime smiling--if you will pardon the pugilistic metaphor--and Ipromise you loyally to do your bidding and never again to distressyou.'

'Your faithful and loving friend.

Paul.'

This letter I addressed and stamped, and then, with a wry grimacewhich I palmed off on myself (but not on Adolphus) as a cheerfulsmile, I went out and dropped it into the post-box; after which Ifurther deluded myself by murmuring Nunc dimittis and assuring myselfthat the incident was now absolutely closed.

But despite this comfortable assurance I was, in the days thatfollowed, an exceedingly miserable young man. It is all very well towrite down troubles of this kind as trivial and sentimental. They arenothing of the kind. When a man of essentially serious nature hasfound the one woman of all the world who fulfils his highest ideals ofwomanhood, who is, in fact, a woman in ten thousand, to whom he hasgiven all that he has to give of love and worship, the sudden wreck ofall his hopes is no small calamity. And so I found it. Resign myselfas I would to the bitter reality, the ghost of the might-have-beenhaunted me night and day, so that I spent my leisure wanderingabstractedly about the streets, always trying to banish thought andnever for an instant succeeding. A great unrest was upon me; and whenI received a letter from Dick Barnard announcing his arrival atMadeira, homeward bound, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had no plansfor the future, but I longed to be rid of thenow irksome, routine ofthe practice--to be free to come and go when and how I pleased.

One evening, as I sat consuming with little appetite my solitarysupper, there fell on me a sudden sense of loneliness. The desire thatI had hitherto felt to be alone with my own miserable reflections gaveplace to a yearning for human companionship. That, indeed, which Icraved for most was forbidden, and I must abide by my lady's wishes;but there were my friends in the Temple. It was more than a week sinceI had seen them; in fact, we had not met since the morning of thatunhappiest day of my life. They would be wondering what had become ofme. I rose from the table, and having filled my pouch from a tin oftobacco, set forth for King's Bench Walk.

As I approached the entry of No. 5A in the gathering darkness I metThorndyke himself emerging encumbered with two deck-chairs, a reading-lantern, and a book.

'Why, Berkeley!' he exclaimed, 'is it indeed thou? We have beenwondering what had become of you.'

'It is a long time since I looked you up,' I admitted.

He scrutinised me attentively by the light of the entry lamp, and thenremarked: 'Fetter Lane doesn't seem to be agreeing with you very well,my son. You are looking quite thin and peaky.'

'Well, I've nearly done with it. Barnard will be back in about tendays. His ship is putting in at Madeira to coal and take in somecargo, and then he is coming home. Where are you going with thosechairs?'

'I am going to sit down at the end of the Walk by the railings. It'scooler there than indoors. If you will wait a moment I will go andfetch another chair for Jervis, though he won't be back for a littlewhile.' He ran up the stairs, and presently returned with a thirdchair, and we carried our impedimenta down to the quiet corner of theWalk.

'So your term of servitude is coming to an end,' said he, when we hadplaced the chairs and hung the lantern on the railings. 'Any othernews?'

'No. Have you any?'

'I am afraid I have not. All my inquiries have yielded negativeresults. There is, of course, a considerable body of evidence, and itall seems to point one way. But I am unwilling to make a decisive movewithout something more definite. I am really waiting for confirmationor otherwise of my ideas on the subject; for some new item ofevidence.'

'I didn't know there was any evidence.'

'Didn't you?' said Thorndyke. 'But you know as much as I know. Youhave all the essential facts; but apparently you haven't collated themand extracted their meaning. If you had, you would have found themcuriously significant.'

'I suppose I mustn't ask what their significance is?' No, I think not.When I am conducting a case I mention my surmises to nobody--not evento Jervis. Then I can say confidently that there has been no leakage.Don't think I distrust you. Remember that my thoughts are my client'sproperty, and that the essence of strategy is to keep the enemy in thedark.'

'Yes, I see that. Of course I ought not to have asked.'

'You ought not to need to ask,' Thorndyke replied, with a smile; 'youshould put the facts together and reason from them yourself.'

While we had been talking I had noticed Thorndyke glance at meinquisitively from time to time. Now after an interval of silence, heasked suddenly:

'Is anything amiss, Berkeley? Are you worrying about your friends'affairs?'

'No, not particularly; though their prospects don't look very rosy.'Perhaps they are not quite so bad as they look,' said he. 'But I amafraid something is troubling you. All your gay spirits seem to haveevaporated.' He paused for a few moments, and then added: 'I don'twant to intrude on your private affairs, but if I can help you byadvice or otherwise, remember that we are old friends and that you aremy academic offspring.'

Instinctively, with a man's natural reticence, I began to mumble ahalf-articulate disclaimer; and then I stopped. After all, why shouldI not confide in him? He was a good man and a wise man, full of humansympathy, as I knew, though so cryptic and secretive in hisprofessional capacity. And I wanted a friend badly just now.

'I'm afraid,' I began shyly, 'it is not a matter that admits of muchhelp, and it's hardly the sort of thing that I ought to worry you bytalking about--'

'If it is enough to make you unhappy, my dear fellow, it is enough tomerit serious consideration by your friend; so if you don't mindtelling me--'

Thus encouraged, I poured out the story of my little romance;bashfully at first and with halting phrases, but later, with morefreedom and confidence. He listened with grave attention, and once ortwice put a question when my narrative became a little disconnected.When I had finished he laid his hand softly on my arm.

'You have had rough luck, Berkeley. I don't wonder that you aremiserable. I am more sorry than I can tell you.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'It's exceedingly good of you to listen sopatiently, but it's a shame for me to pester you with my sentimentaltroubles.'

'Now, Berkeley, you don't think that, and I hope you don't think thatI do. We should be bad biologists and worse physicians if we shouldunderestimate the importance of that which is nature's chiefest care.The one salient biological truth is the paramount importance of sex;and we are deaf and blind if we do not hear and see it in everythingthat lives when we look abroad upon the world; when we listen to thespring song of the birds, or when we consider the lilies of the field.And as is man to the lower organisms, so is human love to their merelyreflex manifestations of sex. I will maintain, and you will agree withme, I know, that the love of a serious and honourable man for a womanwho is worthy of him is the most momentous of all human affairs. It isthe foundation of social life, and its failure is a serious calamity,not only to those whose lives may be thereby spoilt, but to society atlarge.'

'It's a serious enough matter for the parties concerned,' I agreed;'but that is no reason why they should bore their friends.'

'But they don't. Friends should help one another and think it aprivilege.'

'Oh, I shouldn't mind coming to you for help, knowing you as I do. Butno one can help a poor devil in a case like this--and certainly not amedical jurist.'

'Oh, come, Berkeley!' he protested, 'don't rate us too low. Thehumblest of creatures has its uses--"even the little pismire," youknow, as Isaak Walton tells us. Why, I have got substantial help froma stamp-collector. And then reflect upon the motor-scorcher and theearth-worm and the blow-fly. All these lowly creatures play theirparts in the scheme of nature; and shall we cast out the medicaljurist as nothing worth?'

I laughed dejectedly at my teacher's genial irony.

What I meant,' said I, 'was that there is nothing to be done butwait--perhaps for ever. I don't know why she isn't able to marry me,and I mustn't ask her. She can't be married already.'

'Certainly not. She told you explicitly that there was no man in thecase.'

'Exactly. And I can think of no other valid reason, excepting that shedoesn't care enough for me. That would be a perfectly sound reason,but then it would only be a temporary one, not the insuperableobstacle that she assumes to exist, especially as we really got onexcellently together. I hope it isn't some confounded perversefeminine scruple. I don't see how it could be; but women are mostfrightfully tortuous and wrong-headed at times.'

'I don't see,' said Thorndyke, 'why we should cast about forperversely abnormal motives when there is a perfectly reasonableexplanation staring us in the face.'

Us there?' I exclaimed. 'I see none.'

'You are, not unnaturally, overlooking some of the circumstances thataffect Miss Bellingham; but I don't suppose she has failed to grasptheir meaning. Do you realise what her position really is? I mean withregard to her uncle's disappearance?'

'I don't think I quite understand you.'

'Well, there is no use in blinking the facts,' said Thorndyke. 'Theposition is this: if John Bellingham ever went to his brother's houseat Woodford, it is nearly certain that he went there after his visitto Hurst. Mind, I say "if he went"; I don't say that I believe he did.But it is stated that he appears to have gone there; and if he did go,he was never seen alive afterwards. Now, he did not go in at the frontdoor. No one saw him enter the house. But there was a back gate, whichJohn Bellingham knew, and which had a bell which rang in the library.And you will remember that, when Hurst and Jellicoe called, Mr.Bellingham had only just come in. Previous to that time MissBellingham had been alone in the library; that is to say, she wasalone in the library at the very time when John Bellingham is said tohave made his visit. That is the position, Berkeley. Nothing pointedhas been said up to the present. But, sooner or later, if JohnBellingham is not found, dead or alive, the question will be opened.Then it is certain that Hurst, in self-defence, will make the most ofany facts that may transfer suspicion from him to some one else. Andthat some one else will be Miss Bellingham.'

I sat for some moments literally paralysed with horror. Then my dismaygave place to indignation. 'But, damn it!' I exclaimed, starting up--'I beg your pardon--but could anyone have the infernal audacity toinsinuate that that gentle, refined lady murdered her uncle?'

'That is what will be hinted, if not plainly asserted; and she knowsit. And that being so, is it difficult to understand why she shouldrefuse to allow you to be publicly associated with her? To run therisk of dragging your honourable name into the sordid transactions ofthe police-court or the Old Bailey? To invest it, perhaps, with adreadful notoriety?'

'Oh, don't! for God's sake! It is too horrible! Not that I would carefor myself. I would be proud to share her martyrdom of ignominy, if ithad to be; but it is the sacrilege, the blasphemy of even thinking ofher in such terms, that enrages me.'

'Yes,' said Thorndyke; 'I understand and sympathise with you. Indeed,I share your righteous indignation at this dastardly affair. So youmustn't think me brutal for putting the case so plainly.'

'I don't. You have only shown me the danger that I was fool enough notto see. But you seem to imply that this hideous position has beenbrought about deliberately.'

'Certainly I do! This is no chance affair. Either the appearancesindicate the real events--which I am sure they do not--or they havebeen created of a set purpose to lead to false conclusions. But thecircumstances convince me that there has been a deliberate plot; and Iam waiting--in no spirit of Christian patience, I can tell you--to laymy hand on the wretch who has done this.'

'What are you waiting for?' I asked.

'I am waiting for the inevitable,' he replied; 'for the false movethat the most artful criminal invariably makes. At present he is lyinglow; but presently he will make a move, and then I shall have him.'

'But he may go on lying low. What will you do then?'

'Yes, that is the danger. We may have to deal with the perfect villainwho knows when to leave well alone. I have never met him, but he mayexist, nevertheless.'

'And then we should have to stand by and see our friends go under.'

'Perhaps,' said Thorndyke; and we both subsided into gloomy and silentreflection.

The place was peaceful and quiet, as only a backwater of London canbe. Occasional hoots from far-away tugs and steamers told of the busylife down below in the crowded Pool. A faint hum of traffic was bornein from the streets outside the precincts, and the shrill voices ofnewspaper boys came in unceasing chorus from the direction ofCarmelite Street. They were too far away to be physically disturbing,but the excited yells, toned down as they were by distance,nevertheless stirred the very marrow in my bones, so dreadfullysuggestive were they of those possibilities of the future at whichThorndyke had hinted. They seemed like the sinister shadows oncomingmisfortunes.

Perhaps they called up the same association of ideas in Thorndyke'smind, for he remarked presently: 'The newsvendor is abroad to-nightlike a bird of ill-omen. Something unusual has happened: some publicor private calamity, most likely, and these yelling ghouls are out tofeast on the remains. The newspaper men have a good deal in commonwith the carrion-birds that hover over a battle-field.'

Again we subsided into silence and reflection. Then, after aninterval, I asked:

'Would it be possible for me to help in any way in this investigationof yours?'

'That is exactly what I have been asking myself,' replied Thorndyke.'It would be right and proper that you should, and I think you might.'

'How?' I asked eagerly.

'I can't say off-hand; but Jervis will be going away for his holidayalmost at once--in fact, he will go off actual duty to-night. There isvery little doing; the long vacation is close upon us, and I can dowithout him. But if you would care to come down here and take hisplace, you would be very useful to me; and if there should be anythingto be done in the Bellinghams' case, I am sure you would make up inenthusiasm for any deficiency in experience.'

'I couldn't really take Jervis's place,' said I, 'but if you would letme help you in any way it would be a great kindness. I would ratherclean your boots than be out of it altogether.'

'Very well. Let us leave it that you come here as soon as Barnard hasdone with you. You can have Jervis's room, which he doesn't often usenowadays, and you will be more happy here than elsewhere, I know. Imay as well give you my latch-key now. I have a duplicate upstairs,and you understand that my chambers are yours too from this moment.'

He handed me the latch-key and I thanked him warmly from my heart, forI felt sure that the suggestion was made, not for any use that Ishould be to him, but for my own peace of mind. I had hardly finishedspeaking when a quick step on the paved walk caught my ear.

'Here is Jervis,' said Thorndyke. 'We will let him know that there isa locum tenens ready to step into his shoes when he wants to be off.'He flashed the lantern across the path, and a few moments later hisjunior stepped up briskly with a bundle of newspapers tucked under hisarm.

It struck me that Jervis looked at me a little queerly when herecognised me in the dim light; also he was a trifle constrained inhis manner, as if my presence were an embarrassment. He listened toThorndyke's announcement of our newly made arrangement without muchenthusiasm and with none of his customary facetious comments. Andagain I noticed a quick glance at me, half curious, half uneasy, andwholly puzzling to me.

'That's all right,' he said when Thorndyke had explained thesituation. 'I daresay you'll find Berkeley as useful as me, and, inany case, he'll be better here than staying on with Barnard.' He spokewith unwonted gravity, and there was in his tone a solicitude for methat attracted my notice and that of Thorndyke as well, for the latterlooked at him curiously, though he made no comment. After a shortsilence, however, he asked: 'And what news does my learned brotherbring? There is a mighty shouting among the outer barbarians and I seea bundle of newspapers under my learned friend's arm. Has anything inparticular happened?'

Jervis looked more uncomfortable than ever. 'Well--yes,' he repliedhesitatingly, 'something has happened--there! It's no use beatingabout the bush; Berkeley may as well learn it from me as from thoseyelling devils outside.' He took a couple of papers from his bundleand silently handed one to me and the other to Thorndyke.

Jervis's ominous manner, naturally enough, alarmed me not a little. Iopened the paper with a nameless dread. But whatever my vague fears,they fell far short of the occasion; and when I saw those yells fromwithout crystallised into scare head-lines and flaming capitals Iturned for a moment sick and dizzy with fear.

The paragraph was only a short one, and I read it through in less thana minute.

'THE MISSING FINGER

DRAMATIC DISCOVERY AT WOODFORD'

'The mystery that has surrounded the remains of a mutilated humanbody, portions of which have been found in various places in Kent andEssex, has received a partial and very sinister solution. The policehave, all along, suspected that those remains were those of a Mr. JohnBellingham who disappeared under circumstances of some suspicion abouttwo years ago. There is now no doubt upon the subject, for the fingerwhich was missing from the hand that was found at Sidcup has beendiscovered at the bottom of a disused well together with a ring, whichhas been identified as one habitually worn by Mr. John Bellingham.

'The house in the garden of which the well is situated was theproperty of the murdered man, and was occupied at the time of thedisappearance by his brother, Mr. Godfrey Bellingham. But the latterleft it very soon after, and it has been empty ever since. Just latelyit has been put in repair, and it was in this way that the well cameto be emptied and cleaned out. It seems that Detective-InspectorBadger, who was searching the neighbourhood for further remains, heardof the emptying of the well and went down in the bucket to examine thebottom, where he found the three bones and the ring.

'Thus the identity of the body is established beyond all doubt, andthe question that remains is, Who killed John Bellingham? It may beremembered that a trinket, apparently broken from his watch-chain, wasfound in the grounds of this house on the day that he disappeared, andthat he was never again seen alive. What may be the import of thesefacts time will show.'

That was all; but it was enough. I dropped the paper to the ground andglanced round furtively at Jervis, who sat gazing gloomily at the toesof his boots. It was horrible! It was incredible! The blow was socrushing that it left my faculties numb, and for a while I seemedunable even to think intelligibly.

I was aroused by Thorndyke's voice--calm, businesslike, composed:

'Time will show, indeed! But meanwhile we must go warily. And don't beunduly alarmed, Berkeley. Go home, take a good dose of bromide with alittle stimulant, and turn in. I am afraid this has been rather ashock to you.'

I rose from my chair like one in a dream and held out my hand toThorndyke; and even in the dim light and in my dazed condition Inoticed that his face bore a look that I had never seen before; thelook of a granite mask of Fate--grim, stern, inexorable.

My two friends walked with me as far as the gateway at the top ofInner Temple Lane, and as we reached the entry a stranger, comingquickly up the Lane, overtook and passed us. In the glare of the lampoutside the porter's lodge he looked at us quickly over his shoulder,and though he passed on without halt or greeting, I recognised himwith a certain dull surprise which I did not understand then and donot understand now. It was Mr. Jellicoe.

I shook hands once more with my friends and strode out into FleetStreet, but as soon as I was outside the gate I made direct forNevill's Court. What was in my mind I do not know; only that someinstinct of protection led me there, where my lady lay unconscious ofthe hideous menace that hung over her. At the entrance to the Court atall, powerful man was lounging against the wall, and he seemed tolook at me curiously as I passed; but I hardly noticed him and strodeforward into the narrow passage. By the shabby gateway of the house Ihalted and looked up at such of the windows as I could see over thewall. They were all dark. All the inmates, then, were in bed. Vaguelycomforted by this, I walked on to the New Street end of the Court andlooked out. Here, too, a man--a tall, thick-set man--was loitering;and as he looked inquisitively into my face I turned and re-enteredthe Court, slowly retracing my steps. As I again reached the gate ofthe house I stopped to look once more at the windows, and turning Ifound the man whom I had last noticed close behind me. Then, in aflash of dreadful comprehension, I understood. These two were plain-clothes policemen.

For a moment a blind fury possessed me. An insane impulse urged me togive battle to this intruder; to avenge upon this person the insult ofhis presence. Fortunately the impulse was but momentary, and Irecovered myself without making any demonstration. But the appearanceof those two policemen brought the peril into the immediate present,imparted to it a horrible actuality. A chilly sweat of terror stood onmy forehead, and my ears were ringing when I walked with falteringsteps out into Fetter Lane.

CHAPTER XVIII. JOHN BELLINGHAM

THE next few days were a very nightmare of horror and gloom. Ofcourse, I repudiated my acceptance of the decree of banishment thatRuth had passed upon me. I was her friend, at least, and in time ofperil my place was at her side. Tacitly--though thankfully enough,poor girl!--she had recognised the fact and made me once more free ofthe house.

For there was no disguising the situation. Newspaper boys yelled thenews up and down Fleet Street from morning to night; soul-shakingposters grinned on gaping crowds; and the newspapers fairly wallowedin the 'Shocking details.'

It is true that no direct accusations were made; but the originalreports of the disappearance were reprinted with such comments as mademe gnash my teeth with fury.

The wretchedness of those days will live in my memory until my dyingday. Never can I forget the dread that weighed me down, the horriblesuspense, the fear that clutched at my heart as I furtively scannedthe posters in the streets. Even the wretched detectives who prowledabout the entrances to Nevill's Court became grateful to my eyes, for,embodying as they did the hideous menace that hung over my dear lady,their presence at least told me that the blow had not yet fallen.Indeed, we came, after a time, to exchange glances of mutualrecognition, and I thought that they seemed to be sorry for her andfor me, and had no great liking for their task. Of course, I spentmost of my leisure at the old house, though my heart ached more therethan elsewhere; and I tried, with but poor success, I fear to maintaina cheerful, confident manner, cracking my little jokes as of old, andeven essaying to skirmish with Miss Oman. But this last experiment wasa dead failure; and when she had suddenly broken down in a stream ofbrilliant repartee to weep hysterically on my breast, I abandoned theattempt and did not repeat it.

A dreadful gloom had settled down upon the old house. Poor Miss Omancrept silently but restlessly up and down the ancient stairs with dimeyes and a tremulous chin, or moped in her room with a parliamentarypetition (demanding, if I remember rightly, the appointment of afemale judge to deal with divorce and matrimonial causes) which lay onher table languidly awaiting signatures that never came. Mr.Bellingham, whose mental condition at first alternated between furiousanger and absolute panic, was fast sinking into a state of nervousprostration that I viewed with no little alarm. In fact, the onlyreally self-possessed person in the entire household was Ruth herself,and even she could not conceal the ravages of sorrow and suspense andovershadowing peril. Her manner was almost unchanged; or rather, Ishould say, she had gone back to that which I had first known--quiet,reserved, taciturn, with a certain bitter humour showing through herunvarying amiability. When she and I were alone, indeed, her reservemelted away and she was all sweetness and gentleness. But it wrung myheart to look at her, to see how, day by day, she grew ever more thinand haggard; to watch the growing pallor of her cheek; to look intoher solemn grey eyes, so sad and tragic and yet so brave and defiantof fate.

It was a terrible time; and through it all the dreadful questionshaunted me continually: When will the blow fall? What is it that thepolice are waiting for? And when they do strike, what will Thorndykehave to say?

So things went on for four dreadful days. But on the fourth day, justas the evening consultations were beginning and the surgery was filledwith waiting patients, Polton appeared with a note, which he insisted,to the indignation of Adolphus, on delivering into my own hands. Itwas from Thorndyke, and was to the following effect:

'I learn from Dr. Norbury that he has recently heard from HenLederbogen, of Berlin--a learned authority on Oriental antiquities--who makes some reference to an English Egyptologist whom he met inVienna about a year ago. He cannot recall the Englishman's name, butthere are certain expressions in the letter which make Dr. Norburysuspect that he is referring to John Bellingham.'

'I want you to bring Mr. and Miss Bellingham to my chambers thisevening at 8.30, to meet Dr. Norbury and talk over his letter; and inview of the importance of the matter, I look to you not to fail me.'

A wave of hope and relief swept over me. It was still possible thatthis Gordian knot might be cut; that the deliverance might not comebefore it was too late. I wrote a hasty note to Thorndyke and anotherto Ruth, making the appointment; and having given them both to thetrusty Polton, returned somewhat feverishly to my professional duties.To my profound relief, the influx of patients ceased, and the practicesank into its accustomed torpor; whereby I was able without base andmendacious subterfuge to escape in good time to my tryst.

It was near upon eight o'clock when I passed through the archway intoNevill's Court. The warm afternoon light had died away, for the summerwas running out apace. The last red glow of the setting sun had fadedfrom the ancient roofs and chimney stacks, and down in the narrowcourt the shades of evening had begun to gather in nooks and corners.I was due at eight, and, as it still wanted some minutes to the hour,I sauntered slowly down the Court, looking reflectively on thefamiliar scene and the well-known friendly faces.

The day's work was drawing to a close. The little shops were puttingup their shutters; lights were beginning to twinkle in parlourwindows; a solemn hymn arose in the old Moravian chapel, and itsechoes stole out through the dark entry that opens into the courtunder the archway.

Here was Mr. Finneymore (a man of versatile gifts, with a leaningtowards paint and varnish) sitting, white-aproned and shirt-sleeved,on a chair in his garden, smoking his pipe with a complacent eye onhis dahlias. There at an open window a young man, with a brush in hishand and another behind his ear, stood up and stretched himself whilean older lady deftly rolled up a large map. The barber was turning outthe gas in his little saloon; the greengrocer was emerging with acigarette in his mouth and an aster in his button-hole, and a group ofchildren were escorting the lamp-lighter on his rounds.

All these good, homely folk were Nevill's Courtiers of the genuinebreed' born in the court, as had been their fathers before them forgenerations. And of such to a great extent was the population of theplace. Miss Oman herself claimed aboriginal descent and so did thesweet-faced Moravian lady next door--a connection of the famous LaTrobes of the old Conventicle, whose history went back to the GordonRiots; and as to the gentleman who lived in the ancient timber-and-plaster house at the bottom of the court, it was reported that hisancestors had dwelt in that very house since the days of James theFirst.

On these facts I reflected as I sauntered down the court, on thestrange phenomenon of an old-world hamlet with its ancient populationlingering in the very heart of the noisy city; an island of peace setin an ocean of unrest, an oasis in a desert of change and ferment.

My meditations brought me to the shabby gate in the high wall, and asI raised the latch and pushed it open, I saw Ruth standing at the doorof the house talking to Miss Oman. She was evidently waiting for me,for she wore her sombre black coat and hat and a black veil, and whenshe saw me she came out, closing the door after her, and holding outher hand.

'You are punctual,' said she. 'St Dunstan's clock is striking now.'

'Yes,' I answered. 'But where is your father?'

'He has gone to bed, poor old dear. He didn't feel well enough tocome, and I did not urge him. He is really very ill. This dreadfulsuspense will kill him if it goes on much longer.'

'Let us hope it won't,' I said, but with little conviction, I fear, inmy tone.

It was harrowing to see her torn by anxiety for her father, and Iyearned to comfort her. But what was there to say? Mr. Bellingham wasbreaking up visibly under the stress of the terrible menace that hungover his daughter, and no words of mine could make the fact lessmanifest.

We walked silently up the court. The lady at the window greeted uswith a smiling salutation, Mr. Finneymore removed his pipe and raisedhis cap, receiving a gracious bow from Ruth in return, and then wepassed through the covered way into Fetter Lane, where my companionpaused and looked about her.

'What are you looking for?' I asked.

'The detective,' she answered quietly. 'It would be a pity if the poorman should miss me after waiting so long. However, I don't see him.'And she turned away towards Fleet Street. It was an unpleasantsurprise to me that her sharp eyes detected the secret spy upon hermovements; and the dry, sardonic tone of her remark pained me too,recalling, as it did, the frigid self-possession that had so repelledme in the early days of our acquaintance. And yet I could not butadmire the cool unconcern with which she faced her horrible peril.

'Tell me a little more about this conference,' she said, as we walkeddown Fetter Lane. 'Your note was rather more concise than lucid; but Isuppose you wrote it in a hurry.'

'Yes, I did. And I can't give you any details now. All I know is thatDoctor Norbury has had a letter from a friend of his in Berlin, anEgyptologist, as I understand, named Lederbogen, who refers to anEnglish acquaintance of his and Norbury's whom he saw in Vienna abouta year ago. He cannot remember the Englishman's name, but from some ofthe circumstances Norbury seems to think that he is referring to yourUncle John. Of course, if this should turn out to be really the case,it would set everything straight; so Thorndyke was anxious that youand your father should meet Norbury and talk it over.'

'I see,' said Ruth. Her tone was thoughtful but by no meansenthusiastic.

'You don't seem to attach much importance to the matter,' I remarked.

'No. It doesn't seem to fit the circumstances. What is the use ofsuggesting that poor Uncle John is alive--and behaving like animbecile, which he certainly was not--when his dead body has actuallybeen found?'

'But,' I suggested lamely, 'there may be some mistake. It may not behis body after all.'

'And the ring?' she asked, with a bitter smile.

'That may be just a coincidence. It was a copy of a well-known form ofantique ring. Other people may have had copies made as well as youruncle. Besides,' I added with more conviction, 'we haven't seen thering. It may not be his at all.'

She shook her head. 'My dear Paul,' she said quietly, 'it is uselessto delude ourselves. Every known fact points to the certainty that itis his body. John Bellingham is dead: there can be no doubt of that.And to every one except his unknown murderer and one or two of my ownloyal friends, it must seem that his death lies at my door. I realisedfrom the beginning that the suspicion lay between George Hurst and me;and the finding of the ring fixes it definitely on me. I am onlysurprised that the police have made no move yet.'

The quiet conviction of her tone left me for a while speechless withhorror and despair. Then I recalled Thorndyke's calm, even confident,attitude, and I hastened to remind her of it.

'There is one of your friends,' I said, 'who is still undismayed.Thorndyke seems to anticipate no difficulties.'

'And yet,' she replied, 'he is ready to consider a forlorn hope likethis. However, we shall see.'

I could think of nothing more to say, and it was in gloomy silencethat we pursued our way down Inner Temple Lane and through the darkentries and tunnel-like passages that brought us out, at length, bythe Treasury.

'I don't see any light in Thorndyke's chambers,' I said, as we crossedKing's Bench Walk; and I pointed out the row of windows all dark andblank.

'No; and yet the shutters are not closed. He must be out.'

'He can't be after making an appointment with you and your father. Itis most mysterious. Thorndyke is so very punctilious about hisengagements.'

The mystery was solved, when we reached the landing, by a slip ofpaper fixed by a tack on the iron-bound 'oak.'

'A note for P. B. is on the table,' was the laconic message: onreading which I inserted my key, swung the heavy door outward, andopened the lighter inner door. The note was lying on the table and Ibrought it out to the landing to read by the light of the staircaselamp.

'Apologise to our friends,' it ran, 'for the slight change ofprogramme. Norbury is anxious that I should get my experiments overbefore the Director returns, so as to save discussion. He has asked meto begin to-night and says he will see Mr. and Miss Bellingham here,at the Museum. Please bring them along at once. I think some mattersof importance may transpire at the interview.--J. E. T.'

'I hope you don't mind,' I said apologetically, when I had read thenote to Ruth.

'Of course I don't,' she replied. 'I am rather pleased. We have somany associations with the dear old Museum, haven't we?' She looked atme for a moment with a strange and touching wistfulness and thenturned to descend the stone stairs.--|

At the Temple gate I hailed a hansom, and we were soon speedingwestward and north to the soft twinkle of the horse's bell.

'I can only answer you vaguely,' I replied. 'Their object, I believe,is to ascertain whether the penetrability of organic substances by theX-rays becomes altered by age; whether, for instance, an ancient blockof wood is more or less transparent to the rays than a new block ofthe same size.'

'And of what use would the knowledge be, if it were obtained?'

'I can't say. Experiments are made to obtain knowledge without regardto its utility. The use appears when the knowledge has been acquired.But in this case, if it should be possible to determine the age of anyorganic substance by its reaction to X-rays, the discovery might befound of some value in legal practice--as in demonstrating a new sealon an old document, for instance. But I don't know whether Thorndykehas anything definite in view; I only know that the preparations havebeen on a most portentous scale.'

'How do you mean?'

'In regard to size. When I went into the workshop yesterday morning, Ifound Polton erecting a kind of portable gallows about nine feet high,and he had just finished varnishing a pair of enormous wooden trayseach over six feet long. It looked as if he and Thorndyke werecontemplating a few private executions with subsequent post-mortems onthe victims.'

'What a horrible suggestion!'

'So Polton said, with his quaint, crinkly smile. But he was mightyclose about the use of the apparatus all the same. I wonder if weshall see anything of the experiments, when we get there. This isMuseum Street, isn't it?'

'Yes.' As she spoke, she lifted the flap of one of the little windowsin the back of the cab and peered out. Then, closing it with a quiet,ironic smile, she said:

'It is all right; he hasn't missed us. It will be quite a nice littlechange for him.'

The cab swung round into Great Russell Street, and, glancing out as itturned, I saw another hansom following; but before I had time toinspect its solitary passenger, we drew up at the Museum gates.

The gate porter, who seemed to expect us, ushered us up the drive tothe great portico and into the Central Hall, where he handed us overto another official.

'Doctor Norbury is in one of the rooms adjoining the Fourth EgyptianRoom,' the latter stated in answer to our inquiries: and, providinghimself with a wire-guarded lantern, he prepared to escort us thither.

Up the great staircase, now wrapped in mysterious gloom, we passed insilence with bitter-sweet memories of that day of days when we hadfirst trodden its steps together; through the Central Saloon, theMediaeval Room and the Asiatic Saloon, and so into the long range ofthe Ethnographical Galleries.

It was a weird journey. The swaying lantern shot its beams abroad intothe darkness of the great, dim galleries, casting instantaneousflashes on the objects in the cases, so that they leaped into beingand vanished in the twinkling of an eye. Hideous idols with round,staring eyes started forth from the darkness, glared at us for aninstant and were gone. Grotesque masks, suddenly revealed by theshimmering light, took on the semblance of demon faces that seemed tomow and gibber at us as we passed. As for the life-sized models--realistic enough by daylight--their aspect was positively alarming;for the moving light and shadow endowed them with life and movement,so that they seemed to watch us furtively, to lie in wait and to holdthemselves in readiness to steal out and follow us.

The illusion evidently affected Ruth as well as me, for she drewnearer to me and whispered:

'These figures are quite startling. Did you see that Polynesian? Ireally felt as if he were going to spring out on us.'

'They are rather uncanny,' I admitted, 'but the danger is over now. Weare passing out of their sphere of influence.'

We came out on a landing as I spoke and then turned sharply to theleft along the North Gallery, from the centre of which we entered theFourth Egyptian Room.

Almost immediately, a door in the opposite wall opened; a peculiar,high-pitched humming sound became audible, and Jervis came out ontiptoe with his hand raised.

'Tread as lightly as you can,' he said. 'We are just making anexposure.'

The attendant turned back with his lantern, and we followed Jervisinto the room from whence he had come. It was a large room, and littlelighter than the galleries, for the single glow-lamp that burned atthe end where we entered left the rest of the apartment in almostcomplete obscurity. We seated ourselves at once on the chairs that hadbeen placed for us, and, when the mutual salutations had beenexchanged, I looked about me. There were three people in the roombesides Jervis: Thorndyke, who sat with his watch in his hand, a grey-headed gentleman whom I took to be Dr. Norbury, and a smaller personat the dim farther end--undistinguishable, but probably Polton. At ourend of the room were the two large trays that I had seen in theworkshop, now mounted on trestles and each fitted with a rubber drain-tube leading down to a bucket. At the farther end of the room thesinister shape of the gallows reared itself aloft in the gloom; onlynow I could see that it was not a gallows at all. For affixed to thetop cross-bar was a large, bottomless glass basin, inside which was aglass bulb that glowed with a strange green light; and in the heart ofthe bulb a bright spot of red.

It was all clear enough so far. The peculiar sound that filled the airwas the hum of the interrupter; the bulb was, of course, a Crookes'tube, and the red spot inside it, the glowing red-hot disc of theanti-cathode. Clearly an X-ray photograph was being made; but of what?I strained my eyes, peering into the gloom at the foot of the gallows,but though I could make out an elongated object lying on the floordirectly under the bulb, I could not resolve the dimly seen shape intoanything recognisable. Presently, however, Dr. Norbury supplied theclue.

'I am rather surprised,' said he, 'that you chose so composite anobject as a mummy to begin on. I should have thought that a simplerobject, such as a coffin or a wooden figure, would have been moreinstructive.'

'In some ways it would,' replied Thorndyke, 'but the variety ofmaterials that the mummy gives us has its advantages. I hope yourfather is not ill, Miss Bellingham.'

'He is not at all well,' said Ruth, 'and we agreed that it was betterfor me to come alone. I knew Herr Lederbogen quite well. He stayedwith us for a time when he was in England.'

'I trust,' said Dr. Norbury, 'that I have not troubled you fornothing. Herr Lederbogen speaks of "our erratic English friend withthe long name that I can never remember," and it seemed to me that hemight be referring to your uncle.'

'I should have hardly have called my uncle erratic,' said Ruth.

'No, no. Certainly not,' Dr. Norbury agreed hastily. 'However, youshall see the letter presently and judge for yourself. We mustn'tintroduce irrelevant topics while the experiment is in progress, mustwe, Doctor?'

'You had better wait until we have finished,' said Thorndyke, 'becauseI am going to turn out the light. Switch off the current, Polton.'

The green light vanished from the bulb, the hum of the interrupterswept down an octave or two and died away. Then Thorndyke and Dr.Norbury rose from their chairs and went towards the mummy, which theylifted tenderly while Polton drew from beneath it what presentlyturned out to be a huge black paper envelope. The single glow-lamp wasswitched off, leaving the room in total darkness until there burstsuddenly a bright orange red light immediately above one of the trays.

We all gathered round to watch, as Polton--the high priest of thesemysteries--drew from the black envelope a colossal sheet of bromidepaper, laid it carefully in the tray and proceeded to wet it with alarge brush which he had dipped in a pail of water.

'I thought you always used plates for this kind of work,' said Dr.Norbury.

'We do, by preference; but a six-foot plate would be impossible, so Ihad a special paper made to the size.'

There is something singularly fascinating in the appearance of adeveloping photograph; in the gradual, mysterious emergence of thepicture from the blank, white surface of plate or paper. But askiagraph, or X-ray photograph, has a fascination all its own. Unlikethe ordinary photograph, which yields a picture of things alreadyseen, it gives a presentment of objects hitherto invisible; and hence,when Polton poured the developer on the already wet paper, we allcraned over the tray with the keenest curiosity.

The developer was evidently a very slow one. For fully half a minuteno change could be seen in the uniform surface. Then, gradually,almost insensibly, the marginal portion began to darken, leaving theoutline of the mummy in pale relief. The change, once started,proceeded apace. Darker and darker grew the margin of the paper untilfrom slate grey it had turned to black; and still the shape of themummy, now in strong relief, remained an elongated patch of baldwhite. But not for long. Presently the white shape began to be tingedwith grey, and, as the colour deepened, there grew out of it a palerform that seemed to steal out of the enshrouding grey like anapparition, spectral, awesome, mysterious. The skeleton was cominginto view.

'It is rather uncanny,' said Dr. Norbury. 'I feel as if I wereassisting at some unholy rite. Just look at it now!'

The grey shadow of the cartonnage, the wrappings and the flesh wasfading away into the background and the white skeleton stood out insharp contrast. And it certainly was rather a weird spectacle.

'You'll lose the bones if you develop much farther,' said Dr. Norbury.

'I must let the bones darken,' Thorndyke replied, 'in case there areany metallic objects. I have three more papers in the envelope.'

The white shape of the skeleton now began to grey over and, as Dr.Norbury had said, its distinctness became less and yet less. Thorndykeleaned over the tray with his eyes fixed on a point in the middle ofthe breast and we all watched him in silence. Suddenly he rose. 'Now,Polton,' he said sharply, 'get the hypo on as quickly as you can.'

Polton, who had been waiting with his hand on the stop-cock of thedrain-tube, rapidly ran off the developer into the bucket and floodedthe paper with the fixing solution.

'Now we can look at it at our leisure,' said Thorndyke. After waitinga few seconds, he switched on one of the glow-lamps, and as the floodof light fell on the photograph, he added: 'You see we haven't quitelost the skeleton.'

'No.' Dr. Norbury put on a pair of spectacles and bent down over thetray; and at this moment I felt Ruth's hand touch my arm, lightly, atfirst, and then with a strong nervous grasp; and I could feel that herhand was trembling. I looked round at her anxiously and saw that shehad turned deathly pale.

'Would you rather go out into the gallery?' I asked; for the room withits tightly shut windows was close and hot.

Thorndyke glanced at her keenly and then looked away as Dr. Norburyturned to ask him a question.

'Why is it, think you, that some of the teeth show so much whiter thanothers?'

'I think the whiteness of the shadows is due to the presence ofmetal,' Thorndyke replied.

'Do you mean that the teeth have metal fillings?' asked Dr. Norbury.

'Yes.'

'Really! This is very interesting. The use of gold stoppings--andartificial teeth, too--by the ancient Egyptians is well known, but wehave no examples in this Museum. This mummy ought to be unrolled. Doyou think all those teeth are filled with the same metal? They are notequally white.'

'No,' replied Thorndyke. 'Those teeth that are perfectly white areundoubtedly filled with gold, but that greyish one is probably filledwith tin.'

'Very interesting,' said Dr. Norbury. 'Very interesting! And what doyou make of that faint mark across the chest, near the top of thesternum?'

It was Ruth who answered his question. 'It is the eye of Osiris!' sheexclaimed in a hushed voice.

'Dear me!' exclaimed Dr. Norbury, 'so it is. You are quite right. Itis the Utchat--the Eye of Horus--or Osiris, if you prefer to call itso. That, I presume, will be a gilded device on some of thewrappings.'

'No; I should say it is a tattoo mark. It is too indefinite for agilded device. And I should say further that the tattooing is done invermilion, as carbon tattooing would cast no visible shadow.'

'I think you must be mistaken about that,' said Dr. Norbury, 'but weshall see, if the Director allows us to unroll the mummy. By the way,those little objects in front of the knees are metallic, I suppose?'

'Yes, they are metallic. But they are not in front of the knees--theyare in the knees. They are pieces of silver wire which have been Iused to repair fractured kneecaps.'

'Are you sure of that?' exclaimed Dr. Norbury, peering at the littlewhite marks with ecstasy; 'because if you are, and if these objectsare what you say they are, the mummy of Sebekhotep is an absolutelyunique specimen.'

'I am quite certain of it,' said Thorndyke.

'Then,' said Dr. Norbury, 'we have made a discovery, thanks to yourinquiring spirit. Poor John Bellingham! He little knew what a treasurehe was giving us! How I wish he could have known! How I wish he couldhave been here with us to-night!'

He paused once more to gaze in rapture at the photograph. And thenThorndyke, in his quiet, impassive way, said:

'John Bellingham is here, Doctor Norbury. This is John Bellingham.'

Dr Norbury started back and stared at Thorndyke in speechlessamazement.

'You don't mean,' he exclaimed, after a long pause, 'that this mummyis the body of John Bellingham!'

'I do indeed. There is no doubt of it.'

'But it is impossible! The mummy was here in the gallery a full threeweeks before he disappeared.'

'Not so,' said Thorndyke. 'John Bellingham was last seen alive by youand Mr. Jellicoe on the fourteenth of October, more than three weeksbefore the mummy left Queen Square. After that date he was never seenalive or dead by any person who knew him and could identify him.'

'How do you suggest that John Bellingham's body came to be inside thatcartonnage?'

'I think Mr. Jellicoe is the most likely person to be able to answerthat question,' Thorndyke replied dryly.

There was another interval of silence, and then Dr. Norbury askedsuddenly:

'But what do you suppose has become of Sebekhotep? The realSebekhotep, I mean?'

'I take it,' said Thorndyke, 'that the remains of Sebekhotep, or atleast a portion of them, are at present lying in the Woodford mortuaryawaiting an adjourned inquest.'

As Thorndyke made this statement a flash of belated intelligence,mingled with self-contempt, fell on me. Now that the explanation wasgiven, how obvious it was! And yet I, a competent anatomist andphysiologist and actually a pupil of Thorndyke's, had mistaken thoseancient bones for the remains of a recent body!

Dr Norbury considered the last statement for some time in evidentperplexity. 'It is all consistent enough, I must admit,' said he, atlength, 'and yet--are you quite sure there is no mistake? It seems soincredible.'

There is no mistake, I assure you,' Thorndyke answered. 'To convinceyou, I will give you the facts in detail. First, as to the teeth. Ihave seen John Bellingham's dentist and obtained particulars from hiscase-book. There were in all five teeth that had been filled. Theright upper wisdom-tooth, the molar next to it, and the second lowermolar on the left side, had all extensive gold fillings. You can seethem all quite plainly in the skiagraph. The left lower lateralincisor had a very small gold filling, which you can see as a nearlycircular white dot. In addition to these, a filling of tin amalgam hadbeen inserted while the deceased was abroad, in the second left upperbicuspid, the rather grey spot that we have already noticed. Thesewould, by themselves, furnish ample means of identification. But inaddition, there is the tattooed device of the eye of Osiris---'

'Horus,' murmured Dr. Norbury.

'Horus, then--in the exact locality in which it was borne by thedeceased and tattooed, apparently, with the same pigment. There are,further, the suture wires in the knee-caps; Sir Morgan Bennet, havinglooked up the notes of the operation, informs me that he introducedthree suture wires into the left patella and two into the right; whichis what the skiagraph shows. Lastly, the deceased had an old Pott'sfracture on the left side. It is not very apparent now, but I saw itquite distinctly just now when the shadows of the bones were whiter. Ithink that you may take it that the identification is beyond all doubtor question.'

'Yes,' agreed Dr. Norbury, with gloomy resignation, 'it sounds, as yousay, quite conclusive. Well, well, it is a most horrible affair. Poorold John Bellingham! It looks uncommonly as if he had met with foulplay. Don't you think so?'

'I do,' replied Thorndyke. 'There was a mark on the right side of theskull that looked rather like a fracture. It was not very clear, beingat the side, but we must develop the negative to show it.'

Dr Norbury drew his breath in sharply through his teeth. 'This is agruesome business, Doctor,' said he. 'A terrible business. Awkward forour people, too. By the way, what is our position in the matter? Whatsteps ought we to take?'

'You should give notice to the coroner--I will manage the police--andyou should communicate with one of the executors of the will.'

'Mr. Jellicoe?'

'No, not Mr. Jellicoe, under the peculiar circumstances. You hadbetter write to Mr. Godfrey Bellingham.'

'But I rather understood that Mr. Hurst was the co-executor,' said Dr.Norbury.

'He is, surely, as matters stand,' said Jervis.

'Not at all,' replied Thorndyke. 'He was as matters stood; but he isnot now. You are forgetting the conditions of clause two. That clausesets forth the conditions under which Godfrey Bellingham shall inheritthe bulk of the estate and become the co-executor; and thoseconditions are: "that the body of the testator shall be deposited insome authorised place for the reception of the bodies of the dead,situate within the boundaries of, or appertaining to some place ofworship within, the parish of St George, Bloomsbury, and St Giles inthe Fields, or St Andrews above the Bars and St George the Martyr. NowEgyptian mummies are bodies of the dead, and this Museum is anauthorised place for their reception; and this building is situatewithin the boundaries of the parish of St George, Bloomsbury.Therefore the provisions of clause two have been duly carried out andtherefore Godfrey Bellingham is the principal beneficiary under thewill, and the co-executor, in accordance with the wishes of thetestator. Is that quite clear?'

'Perfectly,' said Dr. Norbury; 'and a most astonishing coincidence--but, my dear young lady, had you not better sit down? You are lookingvery ill.'

He glanced anxiously at Ruth, who was pale to the lips and was nowleaning heavily on my arm.

'I think, Berkeley,' said Thorndyke, 'you had better take MissBellingham out into the gallery, where there is more air. This hasbeen a tremendous climax to all the trials she has borne so bravely.Go out with Berkeley,' he added gently, laying his hand on hershoulder, 'and sit down while we develop the other negatives. Youmustn't break down now, you know, when the storm has passed and thesun is beginning to shine.' He held the door open and as we passed outhis face softened into a smile of infinite kindness. 'You won't mindmy locking you out,' said he; 'this is a photographic dark-room atpresent.'

The key grated in the lock and we turned away into the dim gallery. Itwas not quite dark, for a beam of moonlight filtered in here and therethrough the blinds that covered the sky-lights. We walked on slowly,her arm linked in mine, and for a while neither of us spoke. The greatrooms were very silent and peaceful and solemn. The hush, thestillness, the mystery of the half-seen forms in the cases around,were all in harmony with the deeply-felt sense of a great deliverancethat filled our hearts.

We had passed through into the next room before either of us broke thesilence. Insensibly our hands had crept together, and as they met andclasped with mutual pressure, Ruth exclaimed: 'How dreadful and tragicit is! Poor, poor Uncle John! It seems as if he had come back from theworld of shadows to tell us of this awful thing. But, O God! what arelief it is!'

She caught her breath in one or two quick sobs and pressed my handpassionately.

'It is over, dearest,' I said. 'It is gone for ever. Nothing remainsbut the memory of your sorrow and your noble courage and patience.'

'I can't realise it yet,' she murmured. 'It has been like a frightful,interminable dream.'

'Let us put it away,' said I, 'and think only of the happy life thatis opening.'

She made no reply, and only a quick catch in her breath, now andagain, told of the long agony that she had endured with such heroiccalm.

We walked on slowly, scarcely disturbing the silence with our softfootfalls, through the wide doorway into the second room. The vagueshapes of mummy-cases standing erect in the wall-cases, loomed out dimand gigantic, silent watchers keeping their vigil with the memories ofuntold centuries locked in their shadowy breasts. They were an awesomecompany. Reverend survivors from a vanished world, they looked outfrom the gloom of their abiding-place, but with no shade of menace orof malice in their silent presence; rather with a solemn benison onthe fleeting creatures of to-day.

Half-way along the room a ghostly figure, somewhat aloof from itscompanions, showed a dim, pallid blotch where its face would havebeen. With one accord we halted before it.

'As if I could ever forget!' she answered passionately. 'Oh, Paul! Thesorrow of it! The misery! How it wrung my heart to tell you! Were youvery unhappy when I left you?'

'Unhappy! I never knew, until then, what real, heart-breaking sorrowwas. It seemed as if the light had gone out of my life for ever. Butthere was just one little spot of brightness left.'

'What was that?'

'You made me a promise, dear--a solemn promise; and I felt--at leastI hoped--that the day would come, if I only waited patiently, when youwould be able to redeem it.'

She crept closer to me and yet closer, until her head nestled on myshoulder and her soft cheek lay against mine.

'Dear heart,' I whispered, 'is it now? Is the time fulfilled?'

'Yes, dearest,' she murmured softly. 'It is now--and for ever.'

Reverently I folded her in my arms; gathered her to the heart thatworshipped her utterly. Henceforth no sorrows could hurt us, nomisfortunes vex; for we should walk hand in hand on our earthlypilgrimage and find the way all too short.

Time, whose sands run out with such unequal swiftness for the just andthe unjust, the happy and the wretched, lagged, no doubt, with thetoilers in the room that we had left. But for us its golden grainstrickled out apace, and left the glass empty before we had begun tomark their passage. The turning of a key and the opening of a dooraroused us from our dream of perfect happiness. Ruth raised her headto listen, and our lips met for one brief moment. Then, with a silentgreeting to the friend who had looked on our grief and witnessed ourfinal happiness, we turned and retraced our steps quickly, filling thegreat empty rooms with chattering echoes.

'Because--when I came out I was very pale; and I'm--well, I don'tthink I am very pale now. Besides, poor Uncle John is in there--and--Ishould be ashamed to look at him with my selfish heart overflowingwith happiness.'

'You needn't be,' said I. 'It is the day of our lives and we have aright to be happy. But you shan't go in, if you don't wish to,' and Iaccordingly steered her adroitly past the beam of light that streamedfrom the open door.

'We have developed four negatives,' said Thorndyke, as he emerged withthe others, 'and I am leaving them in the custody of Doctor Norbury,who will sign each when they are dry, as they may have to be put inevidence. What are you going to do?'

I looked at Ruth to see what she wished.

'If you won't think me ungrateful,' said she, 'I should rather bealone with my father to-night. He is very weak, and--'

'Yes, I understand,' I said hastily. And I did. Mr. Bellingham was aman of strong emotions and would probably be somewhat overcome by thesudden change of fortune and the news of his brother's tragic death.

'In that case,' said Thorndyke, 'I will bespeak your services. Willyou go on and wait for me at my chambers, when you have seen MissBellingham home?'

I agreed to this, and we set forth under the guidance of Dr. Norbury(who carried an electric lamp) to return by the way we had come; twoof us, at least, in a vastly different frame of mind. The party brokeup at the entrance gates, and as Thorndyke wished my companion 'Good-night,' she held his hand and looked up in his face with swimmingeyes.

'I haven't thanked you, Doctor Thorndyke,' she said, 'and I don't feelthat I ever can. What you have done for me and my father is beyond allthanks. You have saved his life and you have rescued me from the mosthorrible ignominy. Good-bye! and God bless you!'

The hansom that bowled along eastward--at most unnecessary speed--boretwo of the happiest human beings within the wide boundaries of thetown. I looked at my companion as the lights of the street shone intothe cab, and was astonished at the transformation. The pallor of hercheek had given place to a rosy pink; the hardness, the tension, thehaggard self-repression that had aged her face, were all gone, and thegirlish sweetness that had so bewitched me in the early days of ourlove had stolen back. Even the dimple was there when the sweepinglashes lifted and her eyes met mine in a smile of infinite tenderness.

Little was said on that brief journey. It was happiness enough to sit,hand clasped in hand, and know that our time of trial was past; thatno cross of Fate could ever part us now.

The astonished cabman set us down, according to instructions, at theentrance to Nevill's Court, and watched us with open mouth as wevanished into the narrow passage. The court had settled down for thenight, and no one marked our return; no curious eye looked down on usfrom the dark house-front as we said 'Good-bye' just inside the gate.

'You will come and see us to-morrow, dear, won't you?' she asked.

'Do you think it possible that I could stay away, then?'

'I hope not, but come as early as you can. My father will bepositively frantic to see you; because I shall have told him, youknow. And, remember, that it is you who have brought us this greatdeliverance. Good-night, Paul.'

'Good-night, sweetheart.'

She put up her face frankly to be kissed and then ran up to theancient door; whence she waved me a last good-bye. The shabby gate inthe wall closed behind me and hid her from my sight; but the light ofher love went with me and turned the dull street into a path of glory.

CHAPTER XIX. A STRANGE SYMPOSIUM

IT came upon me with something of a shock of surprise to find thescrap of paper still tacked to the oak of Thorndyke's chambers. Somuch had happened since I had last looked on it that it seemed tobelong to another epoch of my life. I removed it thoughtfully andpicked out the tack before entering, and then, closing the inner door,but leaving the oak open, I lit the gas and fell to pacing the room.

What a wonderful episode it had been! How the whole aspect of theworld had been changed in a moment by Thorndyke's revelation! Atanother time, curiosity would have led me to endeavour to trace backthe train of reasoning by which the subtle brain of my teacher hadattained this astonishing conclusion. But now my own happiness heldexclusive possession of my thoughts. The image of Ruth filled thefield of my mental vision. I saw her again as I had seen her in thecab with her sweet, pensive face and downcast eyes; I felt again thetouch of her soft cheek and the parting kiss by the gate, so frank andsimple, so intimate and final.

I must have waited quite a long time, though the golden minutes spedunreckoned, for when my two colleagues arrived they tendered needlessapologies.

'And I suppose,' said Thorndyke, 'you have been wondering what Iwanted you for.'

I had not, as a matter of fact, given the matter a moment'sconsideration.

'We are going to call on Mr. Jellicoe,' Thorndyke explained. 'There issomething behind this affair, and until I have ascertained what it is,the case is not complete from my point of view.'

'Wouldn't it have done as well to-morrow?' I asked.

'It might; and then it might not. There is an old saying as tocatching a weasel asleep. Mr. Jellicoe is a somewhat wide-awakeperson, and I think it best to introduce him to Inspector Badger atthe earliest possible moment.'

'The meeting of a weasel and a badger suggests a sporting interview,'remarked Jervis. 'But you don't expect Jellicoe to give himself away,do you?'

'He can hardly do that, seeing that there is nothing to give away. ButI think he may make a statement. There were some exceptionalcircumstances, I feel sure.'

'How long have you known that the body was in the Museum?' I asked.

'About thirty or forty seconds longer than you have, I should say.'

'Do you mean,' I exclaimed, 'that you did not know until the negativewas developed?'

'My dear fellow,' he replied, 'do you suppose that, if I had hadcertain knowledge where the body was, I should have allowed that noblegirl to go on dragging out a lingering agony of suspense that I couldhave cut short in a moment? Or that I should have made thesehumbugging pretences of scientific experiments if a more dignifiedcourse had been open to me?'

'As to the experiments,' said Jervis, 'Norbury could hardly haverefused if you had taken him into your confidence.'

'Indeed he could, and probably would. My "confidence" would haveinvolved a charge of murder against a highly respectable gentleman whowas well known to him. He would probably have referred me to thepolice, and then what could I have done? I had plenty of suspicions,but not a single solid fact.'

Our discussion was here interrupted by hurried footsteps on the stairsand a thundering rat-tat on our knocker.

As Jervis opened the door, Inspector Badger burst into the room in ahighly excited state.

'What is all this, Doctor Thorndyke?' he asked. 'I see you've sworn aninformation against Mr. Jellicoe, and I have a warrant to arrest him;but before anything else is done I think it right to tell you that wehave more evidence than is generally known pointing to quite adifferent quarter.'

'Derived from Mr. Jellicoe's information,' said Thorndyke. 'But thefact is that I have just examined and identified the body at theBritish Museum, where it was deposited by Mr. Jellicoe. I don't saythat he murdered John Bellingham--though that is what appearancessuggest--but I do say that he will have to account for his secretdisposal of the body.'

Inspector Badger was thunderstruck. Also he was visibly annoyed. Thesalt which Mr. Jellicoe had so adroitly sprinkled on the constabularytail appeared to develop irritating properties, for when Thorndyke hadgiven him a brief outline of the facts he stuck his hands in hispockets and exclaimed gloomily:

'Well, I'm hanged! And to think of all the time and trouble I've spenton those damned bones! I suppose they were just a plant?'

'Don't let us disparage them,' said Thorndyke. 'They have played auseful part. They represent the inevitable mistake that every criminalmakes sooner or later. The murderer will always do a little too much.If he would only lie low and let well alone, the detective mightwhistle for a clue. But it is time we were starting.'

'Are we all going?' asked the inspector, looking at me in particularwith no very gracious recognition.

'We will all come with you,' said Thorndyke; 'but you will, naturally,make the arrest in the way that seems best to you.'

'It's a regular procession,' grumbled the inspector; but he made nomore definite objection, and we started forth on our quest.

The distance from the Temple to Lincoln's Inn is not great. In fiveminutes we were at the gateway in Chancery Lane, and a couple ofminutes later saw us gathered round the threshold of the stately oldhouse in New Square.

'Seems to be a light in the first-floor front,' said Badger. 'You'dbetter move away before I ring the bell.'

But the precaution was unnecessary. As the inspector advanced to thebell-pull a head was thrust out of the open window immediately abovethe street door.

'Who are you?' inquired the owner of the head in a voice which Irecognised as that of Mr. Jellicoe.

'You can do that, but I must caution you that anything you say may beused in evidence against you.'

'Naturally. But I wish to make the statement in the presence of DoctorThorndyke, and I desire to hear a statement from him of the method ofinvestigation by which he discovered the whereabouts of the body. Thatis to say, if he is willing.'

'If you mean that we should mutually enlighten one another, I am verywilling indeed,' said Thorndyke.

'Very well. Then my conditions, Inspector, are that I shall hearDoctor Thorndyke's statement and that I shall be permitted to make astatement myself, and that until those statements are completed, withany necessary interrogation and discussion, I shall remain at libertyand shall suffer no molestation or interference of any kind. And Iagree that, on the conclusion of the said proceedings, I will submitwithout resistance to any course that you may adopt.'

'I can't agree to that,' said Badger.

'Can't you?' said Mr. Jellicoe coldly; and after a pause he added:'Don't be hasty. I have given you warning.'

There was something in Mr. Jellicoe's passionless tone that disturbedthe inspector exceedingly, for he turned to Thorndyke and said in alow tone:

'I wonder what his game is? He can't get away, you know.'

'There are several possibilities,' said Thorndyke.

'M'm, yes,' said Badger, stroking his chin perplexedly.

'After all, is there any objection? His statement might save trouble,and you'd be on the safe side. It would take you some time to breakin.'

'Well,' said Mr. Jellicoe, with his hand on the window, 'do youagree--yes or no?'

'All right,' said Badger sulkily. 'I agree.'

'You promise not to molest me in any way until I have quite finished?'

'I promise.'

Mr. Jellicoe's head disappeared and the window closed. After a shortpause we heard the jar of massive bolts and the clank of a chain, and,as the heavy door swung open, Mr. Jellicoe stood revealed, calm andimpassive, with an old-fashioned office candlestick in his hand.

Who are the others?' he inquired, peering out sharply through hisspectacles.

'Oh, they are nothing to do with me,' replied Badger.

They are Doctor Berkeley and Doctor Jervis,' said Thorndyke.

Ha!' said Mr. Jellicoe; 'very kind and attentive of them to call.Pray, come in, gentlemen. I am sure you will be interested to hear ourlittle discussion.'

He held the door open with a certain stiff courtesy, and we allentered the hall led by Inspector Badger. He closed the door softlyand preceded us up the stairs and into the apartment from the windowof which he had dictated the terms of surrender. It was a fine oldroom, spacious, lofty, and dignified, with panelled walls and a carvedmantelpiece, the central escutcheon of which bore the initials 'J. W.P.' with the date '1671.' A large writing-table stood at the fartherend, and behind it an iron safe.

'I have been expecting this visit,' Mr. Jellicoe remarked tranquillyas he placed four chairs opposite the table. 'Since when?' askedThorndyke.

'Since last Monday evening, when I had the pleasure of seeing youconversing with my friend Doctor Berkeley at the Inner Temple gate,and then inferred that you were retained in the case. That was acircumstance that had not been fully provided for. May I offer yougentlemen a glass of sherry?'

As he spoke he placed on the table a decanter and a tray of glasses,and looked at us interrogatively with his hand on the stopper.

'Well, I don't mind if I do, Mr. Jellicoe,' said Badger, on whom thelawyer's glance had finally settled. Mr. Jellicoe filled a glass andhanded it to him with a stiff bow; then, with the decanter still inhis hand, he said persuasively: 'Doctor Thorndyke, pray allow me tofill you a glass?'

'No, thank you,' said Thorndyke, in a tone so decided that theinspector looked round at him quickly. And as Badger caught his eye,the glass which he was about to raise to his lips became suddenlyarrested and was slowly returned to the table untasted.

'I don't want to hurry you, Mr. Jellicoe,' said the inspector, 'butit's rather late, and I should like to get this business settled. Whatis it that you wish to do?'

'I desire,' replied Mr. Jellicoe, 'to make a detailed statement of theevents that have happened, and I wish to hear from Doctor Thorndykeprecisely how he arrived at his very remarkable conclusion. When thishas been done I shall be entirely at your service; and I suggest thatit would be more interesting if Doctor Thorndyke would give us hisstatement before I furnish you with the actual facts.'

'I am entirely of your opinion,' said Thorndyke.--I

'Then in that case,' said Mr. Jellicoe, 'I suggest that you disregardme, and address your remarks to your friends as if I were notpresent.'

Thorndyke acquiesced with a bow, and Mr. Jellicoe, having seatedhimself in his elbow-chair behind the table, poured himself out aglass of water, selected a cigarette from a neat silver case, lightedit deliberately, and leaned back to listen at his ease.

'My first acquaintance with this case,' Thorndyke began withoutpreamble, 'was made through the medium of the daily papers about twoyears ago; and I may say that, although I had no interest in it beyondthe purely academic interest of a specialist in a case that lies inhis particular speciality, I considered it with deep attention. Thenewspaper reports contained no particulars of the relations of theparties that could furnish any hints as to motives on the part of anyof them, but merely a bare statement of the events. And this was adistinct advantage, inasmuch as it left one to consider the facts ofthe case without regard to motive--to balance the prima facieprobabilities with an open mind. And it may surprise you to learn thatthose prima facie probabilities pointed from the very first to thatsolution which has been put to the test of experiment this evening.Hence it will be well for me to begin by giving the conclusions that Ireached by reasoning from the facts set forth in the newspapers beforeany of the further facts came to my knowledge.

'From the facts as stated in the newspaper reports it is obvious thatthere were four possible explanations of the disappearance.

'1. The man might be alive and in hiding. This was highly improbable,for the reasons that were stated by Mr. Loram at the late hearing ofthe application, and for a further reason that I shall mentionpresently.

'2. He might have died by accident or disease, and his body failed tobe identified. This was even more improbable, seeing that he carriedon his person abundant means of identification, including visitingcards.

'3. He might have been murdered by some stranger for the sake of hisportable property. This was highly improbable for the same reason: hisbody could hardly have failed to be identified.

'These three explanations are what we may call the outsideexplanations. They touched none of the parties mentioned; they wereall obviously improbable on general grounds; and to all of them therewas one conclusive answer--the scarab which was found in GodfreyBellingham's garden. Hence I put them aside and gave my attention tothe fourth explanation. This was that the missing man had been madeaway with by one of the parties mentioned in the report. But, sincethe reports mentioned three parties, it was evident that there was achoice of three hypotheses namely:

4' (a) That John Bellingham had been made away with by Hurst; or (b)by the Bellinghams; or (c) by Mr. Jellicoe.

'Now, I have constantly impressed on my pupils that the indispensablequestion that must be asked at the outset of such an inquiry as thisis, "When was the missing person last undoubtedly seen or known to bealive?" That is the question that I asked myself after reading thenewspaper report; and the answer was, that he was last certainly seenalive on the fourteenth of October, nineteen hundred and two, at 141,Queen Square, Bloomsbury. Of the fact that he was alive at that timeand place there could be no doubt whatever; for he was seen at thesame moment by two persons, both of whom were intimately acquaintedwith him, and one of whom, Doctor Norbury, was apparently adisinterested witness. After that date he was never seen, alive ordead, by any person who knew him and was able to identify him. It wasstated that he had been seen on the twenty-third of November followingby the housemaid of Mr. Hurst; but as this person was unacquaintedwith him, it was uncertain whether the person whom she saw was or wasnot John Bellingham.

'Hence the disappearance dated, not from the twenty-third of November,as every one seems to have assumed, but from the fourteenth ofOctober; and the question was not, "What became of John Bellinghamafter he entered Mr. Hurst's house?" but, "What became of him afterhis interview in Queen Square?"

'But as soon as I had decided that that interview must form the realstarting point of the inquiry, a most striking set of circumstancescame into view. It became obvious that if Mr. Jellicoe had had anyreason for wishing to make away with John Bellingham, he had such anopportunity as seldom falls to the lot of an intending murderer.

'Just consider the conditions. John Bellingham was known to be settingout alone upon a journey beyond the sea. His exact destination was notstated. He was to be absent for an undetermined period, but at leastthree weeks. His disappearance would occasion no comment; his absencewould lead to no inquiries, at least for several weeks, during whichthe murderer would have leisure quietly to dispose of the body andconceal all traces of the crime. The conditions were, from amurderer's point of view, ideal.

'But that was not all. During that very period of John Bellingham'sabsence Mr. Jellicoe was engaged to deliver to the British Museum whatwas admittedly a dead human body; and that body was to be enclosed ina sealed case. Could any more perfect or secure method of disposing ofa body be devised by the most ingenious murderer? The plan would havehad only one weak point: the mummy would be known to have left QueenSquare after the disappearance of John Bellingham, and suspicion mightin the end have arisen. To this point I shall return presently;meanwhile we will consider the second hypothesis--that the missing manwas made away with by Mr. Hurst.

'Now, there seemed to be no doubt that some person, purporting to beJohn Bellingham, did actually visit Mr. Hurst's house; and he musteither have left the house or remained in it. If he left, he did sosurreptitiously; if he remained, there could be no reasonable doubtthat he had been murdered and that his body had been concealed. Let usconsider the probabilities in each case.

'Assuming--as every one seems to have done--that the visitor wasreally John Bellingham, we are dealing with a responsible, middle-agedgentleman, and the idea that such a person would enter a house,announce his intention of staying, and then steal away unobserved isvery difficult to accept. Moreover, he would appear to have come downto Eltham by rail immediately on landing in England, leaving hisluggage in the cloak-room at Charing Cross. This pointed to adefiniteness of purpose quite inconsistent with his casualdisappearance from the house.

'On the other hand, the idea that he might have been murdered by Hurstwas not inconceivable. The thing was physically possible. IfBellingham had really been in the study when Hurst came home, themurder could have been committed--by appropriate means--and the bodytemporarily concealed in the cupboard or elsewhere. But, althoughpossible it was not at all probable. There was no real opportunity.The risk and the subsequent difficulties would be very great; therewas not a particle of positive evidence that a murder had occurred;and the conduct of Hurst in immediately leaving the house inpossession of the servants is quite inconsistent with the suppositionthat there was a body concealed in it. So that, while it is almostimpossible to believe that John Bellingham left the house of his ownaccord, it is equally difficult to believe that he did not leave it.

'But there is a third possibility, which, strange to say, no one seemsto have suggested. Supposing that the visitor was not John Bellinghamat all, but some one who was personating him? That would dispose ofthe difficulties completely. The strange disappearance ceases to bestrange, for a personator would necessarily make off before Mr. Hurstshould arrive and discover the imposture. But if we accept thissupposition, we raise two further questions: "Who was the personator?"and "What was the object of the personation?"

'Now, the personator was clearly not Hurst himself, for he would havebeen recognised by his housemaid; he was therefore either GodfreyBellingham or Mr. Jellicoe or some other person; and as no otherperson was mentioned in the newspaper reports I confined myspeculations to these two.

'And, first, as to Godfrey Bellingham. It did not appear whether hewas or was not known to the housemaid, so I assumed--wrongly, as itturns out--that he was not. Then he might have been the personator.But why should he have personated his brother? He could not havealready committed the murder. There had not been time enough. He wouldhave had to leave Woodford before John Bellingham had set out fromCharing Cross. And even if he had committed the murder, he would haveno object in raising this commotion. His cue would have been to remainquiet and know nothing. The probabilities were all against thepersonator being Godfrey Bellingham.

'Then could it be Mr. Jellicoe? The answer to this question iscontained in the answer to the further question: What could have beenthe object of the personation?

'What motive could this unknown person have had in appearing,announcing himself as John Bellingham, and forthwith vanishing? Therecould only have been one motive: that, namely, of fixing the date ofJohn Bellingham's disappearance--of furnishing a definite moment atwhich he was last seen alive.

'But who was likely to have had such a motive? Let us see.

'I said just now that if Mr. Jellicoe had murdered John Bellingham anddisposed of the body in the mummy-case, he would have been absolutelysafe for the time being. But there would be a weak spot in his armour.For a month or more the disappearance of his client would occasion noremark. But presently, when he failed to return, inquiries would beset on foot; and then it would appear that no one had seen him sincehe left Queen Square. Then it would be noted that the last person withwhom he was seen was Mr. Jellicoe. It might, further, be rememberedthat the mummy had been delivered to the Museum some time after themissing man was last seen alive. And so suspicion might arise and befollowed by disastrous investigations. But supposing it should be madeto appear that John Bellingham had been seen alive more than a monthafter his interview with Mr. Jellicoe and some weeks after the mummyhad been deposited in the Museum? Then Mr. Jellicoe would cease to bein any way connected with the disappearance and henceforth would beabsolutely safe.

'Hence, after carefully considering this part of the newspaper report,I came to the conclusion that the mysterious occurrence at Mr. Hurst'shome had only one reasonable explanation, namely, that the visitor wasnot John Bellingham, but some one personating him; and that that someone was Mr. Jellicoe.

'It remains to consider the case of Godfrey Bellingham and hisdaughter, though I cannot understand how any sane person can haveseriously suspected either' (here Inspector Badger smiled a soursmile). 'The evidence against them was negligible, for there wasnothing to connect them with the affair save the finding of the scarabon their premises; and that event, which might have been highlysuspicious under other circumstances, was robbed of any significanceby the fact that the scarab was found on a spot which had been passeda few minutes previously by the other suspected party, Hurst. Thefinding of the scarab did, however, establish two importantconclusions: namely, that John Bellingham had probably met with foulplay, and that of the four persons present when it was found, one atleast had had possession of the body. As to which of the four was theone, the circumstances furnished only a hint, which was this: If thescarab had been purposely dropped, the most likely person to find itwas the one who dropped it. And the person who discovered it was Mr.Jellicoe.

'Following up this hint, if we ask ourselves what motive Mr. Jellicoecould have had for dropping it--assuming him to be the murderer--theanswer is obvious. It would not be his policy to fix the crime on anyparticular person, but rather to set up a complication of conflictingevidence which would occupy the attention of investigators and divertit from himself.

'Of course, if Hurst had been the murderer, he would have had asufficient motive for dropping the scarab, so that the case againstMr. Jellicoe was not conclusive; but the fact that it was he who foundit was highly significant.

'This completes the analysis of the evidence contained in the originalnewspaper report describing the circumstances of the disappearance.The conclusions that followed from it were, as you will have seen:

'1. That the missing man was almost certainly dead, as proved by thefinding of the scarab after his disappearance.

'2. That he had probably been murdered by one or more of four persons,as proved by the finding of the scarab on the premises occupied by twoof them and accessible to the others.

'3. That, of those four persons, one--Mr. Jellicoe--was the lastperson who was known to have been in the company of the missing man;had had an exceptional opportunity for committing the murder; and wasknown to have delivered a dead body to the Museum subsequently to thedisappearance.

'4. That the supposition that Mr. Jellicoe had committed the murderrendered all the other circumstances of the disappearance clearlyintelligible, whereas on any other supposition they were quiteinexplicable.

'The evidence of the newspaper report, therefore, clearly pointed tothe probability that John Bellingham had been murdered by Mr. Jellicoeand his body concealed in the mummy-case.

'I do not wish to give you the impression that I, then and there,believed that Mr. Jellicoe was the murderer. I did not. There was noreason to suppose that the report contained all the essential facts,and I merely considered it speculatively as a study in probabilities.But I did decide that that was the only probable conclusion from thefacts that were given.

'Nearly two years had passed before I heard anything more of the case.Then it was brought to my notice by my friend, Doctor Berkeley, and Ibecame acquainted with certain new facts, which I will consider in theorder in which they became known to me.

'The first new light on the case came from the will. As soon as I hadread the document I felt convinced that there was something wrong. Thetestator's evident intention was that his brother should inherit theproperty, whereas the construction of the will was such as almostcertainly to defeat that intention. The devolution of the propertydepended on the burial clause--clause two; but the burial arrangementswould ordinarily be decided by the executor, who happened to be Mr.Jellicoe. Thus the will left the disposition of the property under thecontrol of Mr. Jellicoe, though his action could have been contested.

'Now, this will, although drawn up by John Bellingham, was executed inMr. Jellicoe's office as is proved by the fact that it was witnessedby two of his clerks. He was the testator's lawyer, and it was hisduty to insist on the will being properly drawn. Evidently he didnothing of the kind, and this fact strongly suggested some kind ofcollusion on his part with Hurst, who stood to benefit by themiscarriage of the will. And this was the odd feature in the case; forwhereas the party responsible for the defective provisions was Mr.Jellicoe, the party who benefited was Hurst.

'But the most startling peculiarity of the will was the way in whichit fitted the circumstances of the disappearance. It looked as ifclause two had been drawn up with those very circumstances in view.Since, however, the will was ten years old, this was impossible. Butif clause two could not have been devised to fit the disappearance,could the disappearance have been devised to fit clause two? That wasby no means impossible: under the circumstances it looked ratherprobable. And if it had been so contrived, who was the agent in thatcontrivance? Hurst stood to benefit, but there was no evidence that heeven knew the contents of the will. There only remained Mr. Jellicoe,who had certainly connived at the misdrawing of the will for somepurpose of his own--some dishonest purpose.

'The evidence of the will, then, pointed to Mr. Jellicoe as the agentin the disappearance, and, after reading it, I definitely suspectedhim of the crime.

'Suspicion, however, is one thing and proof is another; I had notnearly enough evidence to justify me in laying an information, and Icould not approach the Museum officials without making a definiteaccusation. The great difficulty of the case was that I could discoverno motive. I could not see any way in which Mr. Jellicoe would benefitby the disappearance. His own legacy was secure, whenever and howeverthe testator died. The murder and concealment apparently benefitedHurst alone; and, in the absence of any plausible motive, the factsrequired to be much more conclusive than they were.'

'Did you form absolutely no opinion as to motive?' asked Mr. Jellicoe.

He put the question in a quiet, passionless tone, as if he werediscussing some cause celebre in which he had nothing more than aprofessional interest. Indeed, the calm, impersonal interest that hedisplayed in Thorndyke's analysis, his unmoved attention, punctuatedby little nods of approval at each telling point in the argument, werethe most surprising features of this astounding interview.

'I did form an opinion,' replied Thorndyke, 'but it was merelyspeculative, and I was never able to confirm it. I discovered thatabout ten years ago Mr. Hurst had been in difficulties and that he hadsuddenly raised a considerable sum of money, no one knew how or onwhat security. I observed that this event coincided with the executionof the will, and I surmised that there might be some connectionbetween them. But that was only a surmise; and, as the proverb has it,"He discovers who proves." I could prove nothing, so that I neverdiscovered Mr. Jellicoe's motive, and I don't know it now.'

'Don't you really?' said Mr. Jellicoe, in something approaching a toneof animation. He laid down the end of his cigarette, and, as heselected another from the silver case, he continued: 'I think that isthe most interesting feature of your really remarkable analysis. Itdoes you great credit. The absence of motive would have appeared tomost persons a fatal objection to the theory of, what I may call, theprosecution. Permit me to congratulate you on the consistency andtenacity with which you have pursued the actual, visible facts.'

He bowed stiffly to Thorndyke (who returned his bow with equalstiffness), lighted a fresh cigarette, and once more leaned back inhis chair with the calm, attentive manner of a man who is listening toa lecture or a musical performance.

'The evidence, then, being insufficient to act upon,' Thorndykeresumed, 'there was nothing for it but to wait for some new facts.Now, the study of a large series of carefully conducted murders bringsinto view an almost invariable phenomenon. The cautious murderer, inhis anxiety to make himself secure, does too much; and it is thisexcess of precaution that leads to detection. It happens constantly;indeed, I may say that it always happens--in those murders that aredetected; of those that are not we say nothing--and I had stronghopes that it would happen in this case. And it did.

'At the very moment when my client's case seemed almost hopeless, somehuman remains were discovered at Sidcup. I read the account of thediscovery in the evening paper, and, scanty as the report was, itrecorded enough facts to convince me that the inevitable mistake hadbeen made.'

'Did it, indeed?' said Mr. Jellicoe. 'A mere, inexpert, hearsayreport! I should have supposed it to be quite valueless from ascientific point of view.'

'So it was,' said Thorndyke. 'But it gave the date of the discoveryand the locality, and it also mentioned what bones had been found.Which were all vital facts. Take the question of time. These remains,after lying perdu for two years, suddenly come to light just as theparties--who have also been lying perdu--have begun to take action inrespect of the will; in fact, within a week or two of the hearing ofthe application. It was certainly a remarkable coincidence. And whenthe circumstances that occasioned the discovery were considered, thecoincidence became more remarkable still. For these remains were foundon land actually belonging to John Bellingham, and their discoveryresulted from certain operations (the clearing of the watercress-beds)carried out on behalf of the absent landlord. But by whose orders werethose works undertaken? Clearly by the orders of the landlord's agent.But the landlord's agent was known to be Mr. Jellicoe. Therefore theseremains were brought to light at this peculiarly opportune moment bythe action of Mr. Jellicoe. The coincidence, I say again, was veryremarkable.

'But what instantly arrested my attention on reading the newspaperreport was the unusual manner in which the arm had been separated;for, beside the bones of the arm proper, there were those of whatanatomists call the "shoulder-girdle"--the shoulder-blade and collar-bone. This was very remarkable. It seemed to suggest a knowledge ofanatomy, and yet no murderer, even if he possessed such knowledge,would make a display of it on such an occasion. It seemed to me thatthere must be some other explanation. Accordingly, when other remainshad come to light and all had been collected at Woodford, I asked myfriend Berkeley to go down there and inspect them. He did so, and thisis what he found:

'Both arms had been detached in the same peculiar manner; both werecomplete, and all the bones were from the same body. The bones werequite clean--of soft structures, I mean. There were no cuts, scratchesor marks on them. There was not a trace of adipocere--the peculiarwaxy soap that forms in bodies that decay in water or in a dampsituation. The right hand had been detached at the time the arm wasthrown into the pond, and the left ring finger had been separated andhad vanished. This latter fact had attracted my attention from thefirst, but I will leave its consideration for the moment and return toit later.'

'How did you discover that the hand had been detached?' Mr. Jellicoeasked.

'By the submersion marks,' replied Thorndyke. 'It was lying on thebottom of the pond in a position which would have been impossible ifit had been attached to the arm.'

'The remains which had been assembled formed a complete human skeletonwith the exception of the skull, one finger, and the legs from theknee to the ankle, including both knee-caps. This was a veryimpressive fact; for the bones that were missing included all thosewhich could have been identified as belonging or not belonging to JohnBellingham; and the bones that were present were the unidentifiableremainder.

'It had a suspicious appearance of selection.

'But the parts that were present were also curiously suggestive. Inall cases the mode of dismemberment was peculiar; for an ordinaryperson would have divided the knee-joint leaving the kneecap attachedto the thigh, whereas it had evidently been left attached to the shin-bone; and the head would most probably have been removed by cuttingthrough the neck instead of being neatly detached from the spine. Andall these bones were almost entirely free from marks or scratches suchas would naturally occur in an ordinary dismemberment, and all werequite free from adipocere. And now as to the conclusions which I drewfrom these facts. First, there was the peculiar grouping of the bones.What was the meaning of that? Well, the idea of a punctiliousanatomist was obviously absurd, and I put it aside. But was there anyother explanation? Yes, there was. The bones had appeared in thenatural groups that are held together by ligaments; and they hadseparated at points where they were attached principally by muscles.The knee-cap, for instance, which really belongs to the thigh, isattached to it by muscle, but to the shin-bone by a stout ligament.And so with the bones of the arm; they are connected to one another byligaments; but to the trunk only by muscle, excepting at one end ofthe collarbone.

But this was a very significant fact. Ligament decays much more slowlythan muscle, so that in a body of which the muscles had largelydecayed the bones might still be held together by ligament. Thepeculiar grouping therefore suggested that the body had been partlyreduced to a skeleton before it was dismembered; that it had then beenmerely pulled apart and not divided with a knife.

'This suggestion was remarkably confirmed by the total absence ofknife-cuts or scratches.

'Then there was the fact that all the bones were quite free fromadipocere. Now, if an arm or a thigh should be deposited in water andleft undisturbed to decay, it is certain that large masses ofadipocere would be formed. Probably more than half of the flesh wouldbe converted into this substance. The absence of adipocere thereforeproved that the bulk of the flesh had disappeared or been removed fromthe bones before they were deposited in the pond. That, in fact, itwas not a body, but a skeleton, that had been deposited.

'But what kind of skeleton? If it was the recent skeleton of amurdered man, then the bones had been carefully stripped of flesh soas to leave the ligaments intact. But this was highly improbable; forthere could be no object in preserving the ligaments. And the absenceof scratches was against this view.

'Then they did not appear to be graveyard bones. The collection wastoo complete. It is very rare to find a graveyard skeleton of whichmany of the small bones are not missing. And such bones are usuallymore or less weathered or friable.

'They did not appear to be bones such as may be bought at anosteological dealer's, for these usually have perforations to admitthe macerating fluid to the marrow cavities. Dealers' bones, too, arevery seldom all from the same body; and the small bones of the handare drilled with holes to enable them to be strung on catgut.

'They were not dissecting-room bones, as there was no trace of redlead in the openings for the nutrient arteries.

'What the appearances did suggest was that these were parts of a bodywhich had decayed in a very dry atmosphere (in which no adipocerewould be formed), and which had been pulled or broken apart. Also thatthe ligaments which held the body--or rather skeleton--together werebrittle and friable as suggested by the detached hand, which hadprobably broken off accidentally. But the only kind of body thatcompletely answered this description is an Egyptian mummy. A mummy, itis true, has been more or less preserved; but on exposure to the airof such a climate as ours it perishes rapidly, the ligaments being thelast of the soft parts to disappear.

'The hypothesis that these bones were parts of a mummy naturallysuggested Mr. Jellicoe. If he had murdered John Bellingham andconcealed his body in the mummy-case, he would have a spare mummy onhis hands, and that mummy would have been exposed to the air and tosomewhat rough handling.

'A very interesting circumstance connected with these remains was thatthe ring finger was missing. Now, fingers have on sundry occasionsbeen detached from dead hands for the sake of the rings on them. Butin such cases the object has been to secure a valuable ring uninjured.If this hand was the hand of John Bellingham, there was no suchobject. The purpose was to prevent identification; and that purposewould have been more easily, and much more completely, achieved bysacrificing the ring, by filing through it or breaking it off thefinger. The appearances, therefore, did not quite agree with theapparent purpose.

'Then, could there be any other purpose with which they agreed better?Yes, there could.

'If it had happened that John Bellingham were known to have worn aring on that finger, and especially if that ring fitted tightly, theremoval of the finger would serve a very useful purpose. It wouldcreate an impression that the finger had been removed on account of aring, to prevent identification; which impression would, in turn,produce a suspicion that the hand was that of John Bellingham. And yetit would not be evidence that could be used to establish identity.Now, if Mr. Jellicoe were the murderer and had the body hiddenelsewhere, vague suspicion would be precisely what he would desire,and positive evidence what he would wish to avoid.

'It transpired later that John Bellingham did wear a ring on thatfinger and that the ring fitted very tightly. Whence it followed thatthe absence of the finger was an additional point tending to implicateMr. Jellicoe.

'And now let us briefly review this mass of evidence. You will seethat it consists of a multitude of items, each either trivial orspeculative. Up to the time of the actual discovery I had not a singlecrucial fact, nor any clue as to motive. But, slight as the individualpoints of evidence were, they pointed with impressive unanimity to oneperson--Mr. Jellicoe. Thus:

'The person who had the opportunity to commit murder and dispose ofthe body was Mr. Jellicoe.

'The deceased was last certainly seen alive with Mr. Jellicoe.

'An unidentified human body was delivered to the Museum by Mr.Jellicoe.

'The only person who could have a motive for personating the deceasedwas Mr. Jellicoe.

'The only known person who could possibly have done so was Mr.Jellicoe.

'One of the two persons who could have had a motive for dropping thescarab was Mr. Jellicoe. The person who found that scarab was Mr.Jellicoe, although, owing to his defective eyesight and hisspectacles, he was the most unlikely person of those present to findit.

'The person who was responsible for the execution of the defectivewill was Mr. Jellicoe.

'Then as to the remains. They were apparently not those of JohnBellingham, but parts of a particular kind of body. But the onlyperson who was known to have had such a body in his possession was Mr.Jellicoe.

'The only person who could have had any motive for substituting thoseremains for the remains of the deceased was Mr. Jellicoe.

'Finally, the person who caused the discovery of those remains at thatsingularly opportune moment was Mr. Jellicoe.

'This was the sum of the evidence that was in my possession up to thetime of the hearing and, indeed, for some time after, and it was notenough to act upon. But when the case had been heard in Court, it wasevident either that the proceedings would be abandoned--which wasunlikely--or that there would be new developments.

'I watched the progress of events with profound interest. An attempthad been made (by Mr. Jellicoe or some other person) to get the willadministered without producing the body of John Bellingham; and thatattempt had failed. The coroner's jury had refused to identify theremains; the Probate Court had refused to presume the death of thetestator. As affairs stood the will could not be administered.

'What would be the next move?

'It was virtually certain that it would consist in the production ofsomething which would identify the unrecognised remains as those ofthe testator.

'But what would that something be?

'The answer to that question would contain the answer to anotherquestion: Was my solution of the mystery the true solution?

'If I was wrong, it was possible that some of the undoubtedly genuinebones of John Bellingham might presently be discovered; for instance,the skull, the knee-cap, or the left fibula, by any of which theremains could be positively identified.

'If I was right, only one thing could possibly happen. Mr. Jellicoewould have to play the trump card that he had been holding back incase the Court should refuse the application; a card that he wasevidently reluctant to play.

'He would have to produce the bones of the mummy's finger, togetherwith John Bellingham's ring. No other course was possible.

'But not only would the bones and the ring have to be found together.They would have to be found in a place which was accessible to Mr.Jellicoe, and so far under his control that he could determine theexact time when the discovery should be made.

'I waited patiently for the answer to my question. Was I right or wasI wrong?

'And, in due course, the answer came.

'The bones and the ring were discovered in the well in the grounds ofGodfrey Bellingham's late house. That house was the property of JohnBellingham. Mr. Jellicoe was John Bellingham's agent. Hence it waspractically certain that the date on which the well was emptied wassettled by Mr. Jellicoe.

'The oracle had spoken.

'The discovery proved conclusively that the bones were not those ofJohn Bellingham (for if they had been the ring would have beenunnecessary for identification). But if the bones were not JohnBellingham's, the ring was; from which followed the importantcorollary that whoever had deposited those bones in the well had hadpossession of the body of John Bellingham. And there could be no doubtthat that person was Mr. Jellicoe.

'On receiving this final confirmation of my conclusions, I appliedforthwith to Doctor Norbury for permission to examine the mummy ofSebekhotep, with the result that you are already acquainted with.'

As Thorndyke concluded, Mr. Jellicoe regarded him thoughtfully for amoment and then said: 'You have given us a most complete and lucidexposition of your method of investigation, sir. I have enjoyed itexceedingly, and should have profited by it hereafter--under othercircumstances. Are you sure you won't allow me to fill your glass?' Hetouched the stopper of the decanter, and Inspector Badgerostentatiously consulted his watch.

'Time is running on, I fear,' said Mr. Jellicoe.

'It is, indeed,' Badger assented emphatically.

'Well, I need not detain you long,' said the lawyer. 'My statement isa narration of events. But I desire to make it, and you, no doubt,will be interested to hear it.'

He opened the silver case and selected a fresh cigarette, which,however, he did not light. Inspector Badger produced a funerealnotebook, which he laid open on his knee; and the rest of us settledourselves in our chairs with no little curiosity to hear Mr.Jellicoe's statement.

CHAPTER XX. THE END OF THE CASE

A PROFOUND silence had fallen on the room and its occupants. Mr.Jellicoe sat with his eyes fixed on the table as if deep in thought,the unlighted cigarette in one hand, the other grasping the tumbler ofwater. Presently Inspector Badger coughed impatiently and he lookedup. 'I beg your pardon, gentlemen,' he said. 'I am keeping youwaiting.'

He took a sip from the tumbler, opened a match-box and took out amatch, but apparently altering his mind, laid it down and commenced:

'The unfortunate affair which has brought you here to-night, had itsorigin ten years ago. At that time my friend Hurst became suddenlyinvolved in financial difficulties--am I speaking too fast for you,Mr. Badger?'

'No not at all,' replied Badger. 'I am taking it down in shorthand.'

'Thank you,' said Mr. Jellicoe. 'He became involved in seriousdifficulties and came to me for assistance. He wished to borrow fivethousand pounds to enable him to meet his engagements. I had a certainamount of money at my disposal, but I did not consider Hurst'ssecurity satisfactory; accordingly I felt compelled to refuse. But onthe very next day, John Bellingham called on me with a draft of hiswill which he wished me to look over before it was executed.

'It was an absurd will, and I nearly told him so; but then an ideaoccurred to me in connection with Hurst. It was obvious to me, as soonas I glanced through the will, that, if the burial clause was left asthe testator had drafted it, Hurst had a very good chance ofinheriting the property; and, as I was named as the executor I shouldbe able to give full effect to that clause. Accordingly, I asked for afew days to consider the will, and then I called upon Hurst and made aproposal to him; which was this: That I should advance him fivethousand pounds without security; that I should ask for no repayment,but that he should assign to me any interest that he might have oracquire in the estate of John Bellingham up to ten thousand pounds, ortwo-thirds of any sum that he might inherit if over that amount. Heasked if John had yet made any will, and I replied, quite correctly,that he had not. He inquired if I knew what testamentary arrangementsJohn intended to make, and again I answered, quite correctly, that Ibelieved John proposed to devise the bulk of his property to hisbrother, Godfrey.

'Thereupon, Hurst accepted my proposal; I made him the advance and heexecuted the assignment. After a few days' delay, I passed the will assatisfactory. The actual document was written from the draft by thetestator himself; and a fortnight after Hurst had executed theassignment, John signed the will in my office. By the provisions ofthat will I stood an excellent chance of becoming virtually theprincipal beneficiary, unless Godfrey should contest Hurst's claim andthe Court should override the conditions of clause two.

'You will now understand the motives which governed my subsequentactions. You will also see, Doctor Thorndyke, how very near to thetruth your reasoning carried you; and you will understand, as I wishyou to do, that Mr. Hurst was no party to any of those proceedingswhich I am about to describe.

'Coming now to the interview in Queen Square in October, nineteenhundred and two, you are aware of the general circumstances from myevidence in Court, which was literally correct up to a certain point.The interview took place in a room on the third floor, in which werestored the cases which John had brought with him from Egypt. The mummywas unpacked, as were some other objects that he was not offering tothe Museum, but several cases were still unopened. At the conclusionof the interview I accompanied Doctor Norbury down to the street door,and we stood on the doorstep conversing for perhaps a quarter of anhour. Then Doctor Norbury went away and I returned upstairs.

'Now the house in Queen Square is virtually a museum. The upper partis separated from the lower by a massive door which opens from thehall and gives access to the staircase and which is fitted with aChubb night-latch. There are two latch-keys, of which John used tokeep one and I the other. You will find them both in the safe behindme. The caretaker had no key and no access to the upper part of thehouse unless admitted by one of us.

'At the time when I came in, after Doctor Norbury had left, thecaretaker was in the cellar, where I could hear him breaking coke forthe hot-water furnace. I had left John on the third floor opening someof the packing-cases by the light of a lamp with a tool somewhat likea plasterer's hammer; that is, a hammer with a small axe-blade at thereverse of the head. As I stood talking to Doctor Norbury, I couldhear him knocking out the nails and wrenching up the lids; and when Ientered the doorway leading to the stairs, I could still hear him.Just as I closed the staircase door behind me, I heard a rumblingnoise from above; then all was still.

'I went up the stairs to the second floor, where, as the staircase wasall in darkness, I stopped to light the gas. As I turned to ascend thenext flight, I saw a hand projecting over the edge of the halfwaylanding. I ran up the stairs, and there, on the landing, I saw Johnlying huddled up in a heap at the foot of the top flight. There was awound at the side of his forehead from which a little blood wastrickling. The case-opener lay on the floor close by him and there wasblood on the axe-blade. When I looked up the stairs I saw a rag oftorn matting over the top stair.

'It was quite easy to see what had happened. He had walked quickly outon the landing with the case-opener in his hand. His foot had caughtin the torn matting and he had pitched head foremost down the stairsstill holding the case-opener. He had fallen so that his head had comedown on the upturned edge of the axe-blade; he had then rolled overand the case-opener had dropped from his hand.

'I lit a wax match and stooped down to look at him. His head was in avery peculiar position, which made me suspect that his neck wasbroken. There was extremely little bleeding from the wound; he wasperfectly motionless; I could detect no sign of breathing; and I feltno doubt that he was dead.

'It was an exceedingly regrettable affair, and it placed me, as Iperceived at once, in an extremely awkward position. My first impulsewas to send the caretaker for a doctor and a policeman; but a moment'sreflection convinced me that there were serious objections to thiscourse.

'There was nothing to show that I had not, myself, knocked him downwith the case-opener. Of course, there was nothing to show that I had;but we were alone in the house with the exception of the caretaker,who was down in the basement out of earshot.

'There would be an inquest. At the inquest inquiries would be made asto the will which was known to exist. But as soon as the will wasproduced, Hurst would become suspicious. He would probably make astatement to the coroner and I should be charged with the murder. Or,even if I were not charged, Hurst would suspect me and would probablyrepudiate the assignment; and, under the circumstances, it would bepractically impossible for me to enforce it. He would refuse to payand I could not take my claim into Court.

I sat down on the stairs just above poor John's body and consideredthe matter in detail. At the worst, I stood a fair chance of hanging;at the best, I stood to lose close upon fifty thousand pounds. Thesewere not pleasant alternatives.

'Supposing, on the other hand, I concealed the body and gave out thatJohn had gone to Paris. There was, of course, the risk of discovery,in which case I should certainly be convicted of the murder. But if nodiscovery occurred, I was not only safe from suspicion, but I securedthe fifty thousand pounds. In either case there was considerable risk,but in one there was the certainty of loss, whereas in the other therewas a material advantage to justify the risk. The question was whetherit would be possible to conceal the body. If it were, then thecontingent profit was worth the slight additional risk. But a humanbody is a very difficult thing to dispose of, especially to a personof so little scientific culture as myself.

'It is curious that I considered this question for a quiteconsiderable time before the obvious solution presented itself. Iturned over at least a dozen methods of disposing of the body, andrejected them all as impracticable. Then, suddenly, I remembered themummy upstairs.

'At first it only occurred to me as a fantastic possibility that Icould conceal the body in the mummy-case. But as I turned over theidea I began to see that it was really practicable; and not onlypracticable but easy; and not only easy but eminently safe. If oncethe mummy-case was in the Museum, I was rid of it for ever.

'The circumstances were, as you, sir, have justly observed, singularlyfavourable. There would be no hue and cry, no hurry, no anxiety; butample time for all the necessary preparations. Then the mummy-caseitself was curiously suitable. Its length was ample, as I knew fromhaving measured it. It was a cartonnage of rather flexible materialand had an opening behind, secured with a lacing so that it could beopened without injury. Nothing need be cut but the lacing, which couldbe replaced. A little damage might be done in extracting the mummy andin introducing the deceased; but such cracks as might occur would beof no importance. For here again Fortune favoured me. The whole of theback of the mummy-case was coated with bitumen, and it would be easywhen once the deceased was safely inside to apply a fresh coat, whichwould cover up not only the cracks but also the new lacing.

'After careful consideration, I decided to adopt the plan. I wentdownstairs and sent the caretaker on an errand to the Law Courts. ThenI returned and carried the deceased up to one of the third-floorrooms, where I removed his clothes and laid him out on a long packing-case in the position in which he would lie in the mummy-case. I foldedhis clothes neatly and packed them, with the exception of his boots,in a suit-case that he had been taking to Paris and which containednothing but his night-clothes, toilet articles, and a change of linen.By the time I had done this and thoroughly washed the oilcloth on thestairs and landing, the caretaker had returned. I informed him thatMr. Bellingham had started for Paris and then I went home. The upperpart of the house was, of course, secured by the Chubb lock, but I hadalso--ex abundantia caulela--locked the door of the room in which Ihad deposited the deceased.

'I had, of course, some knowledge of the methods of embalming, butprincipally of those employed by the ancients. Hence, on the followingday, I went to the British Museum library and consulted the mostrecent works on the subject; and exceedingly interesting they were, asshowing the remarkable improvements that modern knowledge has effectedin this ancient art. I need not trouble you with details that arefamiliar to you. The process that I selected as the simplest for abeginner was that of formalin injection, and I went straight from theMuseum to purchase the necessary materials. I did not, however, buy anembalming syringe: the book stated that an ordinary anatomicalinjecting syringe would answer the same purpose, and I thought it amore discreet purchase.

'I fear that I bungled the injection terribly, although I hadcarefully studied the plates in a treatise on anatomy--Gray's, Ithink. However, if my methods were clumsy, they were quite effectual.I carried out the process on the evening of the third day; and when Ilocked up the house that night, I had the satisfaction of knowing thatpoor John's remains were secure from corruption and decay.

'But this was not enough. The great weight of a fresh body as comparedwith that of a mummy would be immediately noticed by those who had thehandling of the mummy-case. Moreover, the damp from the body wouldquickly ruin the cartonnage and would cause a steamy film on theinside of the glass case in which it would be exhibited. And thiswould probably lead to an examination. Clearly, then, it was necessarythat the remains of the deceased should be thoroughly dried beforethey were enclosed in the cartonnage.

'Here my unfortunate deficiency in scientific knowledge was a greatdrawback. I had no idea how this result would be achieved and, in theend, was compelled to consult a taxidermist, to whom I representedthat I wished to collect some small animals and reptiles and rapidlydry them for convenience of transport. By this person I was advised toimmerse the dead animals in a jar of methylated spirit for a week andthen expose them in a current of warm, dry air.

'But the plan of immersing the remains of the deceased in ajar ofmethylated spirit was obviously impracticable. However, I bethought methat we had in our collection a porphyry sarcophagus, the cavity ofwhich had been shaped to receive a small mummy in its case. I triedthe deceased in the sarcophagus and found that he just fitted thecavity loosely. I obtained a few gallons of methylated spirit, which Ipoured into the cavity, just covering the body, and then I put on thelid and luted it down air-tight with putty. I trust I do not weary youwith these particulars?'

'I'll ask you to cut it as short as you can, Mr. Jellicoe,' saidBadger. 'It has been a long yarn and time is running on.'

'For my part,' said Thorndyke, 'I find these details deeplyinteresting and instructive. They fill in the outline that I had drawnby inference.'

'Precisely,' said Mr. Jellicoe; 'then I will proceed.

'I left the deceased soaking in the spirit for a fortnight and thentook him out, wiped him dry, and laid him on four cane-bottomed chairsjust over the hot-water pipes, and I let a free current of air passthrough the room. The result interested me exceedingly. By the end ofthe third day the hands and feet had become quite dry and shrivelledand horny--so that the ring actually dropped off the shrunken finger--the nose looked like a fold of parchment; and the skin of the body wasso dry and smooth that you could have engrossed a lease on it. For thefirst day or two I turned the deceased at intervals so that he shoulddry evenly, and then I proceeded to get the case ready. I divided thelacing and extracted the mummy with great care--with great care as tothe case, I mean; for the mummy suffered some injury in theextraction. It was very badly embalmed, and so brittle that it brokein several places while I was getting it out; and when I unrolled itthe head separated and both the arms came off.

'On the sixth day after the removal from the sarcophagus, I took thebandages that I had removed from Sebekhotep and very carefully wrappedthe deceased in them, sprinkling powdered myrrh and gum benzoin freelyon the body and between the folds of the wrappings to disguise thefaint odour of the spirit and the formalin that still lingered aboutthe body. When the wrappings had been applied, the deceased really hada most workmanlike appearance; he would have looked quite well in aglass case even without the cartonnage, and I felt almost regretful athaving to put him out of sight for ever.

'It was a difficult business getting him into the case withoutassistance, and I cracked the cartonnage badly in several placesbefore he was safely enclosed. But I got him in at last, and then,when I had closed up the case with a new lacing, I applied a freshlayer of bitumen which effectually covered up the cracks and the newcord. A dusty cloth dabbed over the bitumen when it was dry disguisedits newness, and the cartonnage with its tenant was ready fordelivery. I notified Doctor Norbury of the fact, and five days laterhe came and removed it to the Museum.

'Now that the main difficulty was disposed of, I began to consider thefurther difficulty to which you, sir, have alluded with such admirableperspicuity. It was necessary that John Bellingham should make onemore appearance in public before sinking into final oblivion.

'Accordingly, I devised the visit to Hurst's house, which wascalculated to serve two purposes. It created a satisfactory date forthe disappearance, eliminating me from any connection with it, and bythrowing some suspicion on Hurst it would make him more amenable--lesslikely to dispute my claim when he learned the provisions of the will.

'The affair was quite simple. I knew that Hurst had changed hisservants since I was last at his house, and I knew his habits. On thatday I took the suit-case to Charing Cross and deposited it in thecloak-room, called at Hurst's office to make sure that he was there,and went from thence direct to Cannon Street and caught the train toEltham. On arriving at the house, I took the precaution to remove myspectacles--the only distinctive feature of my exterior--and was dulyshown into the study at my request. As soon as the housemaid had leftthe room I quietly let myself out by the French window, which I closedbehind me but could not fasten, went out at the side gate and closedthat also behind me, holding the bolt of the latch back with mypocket-knife so that I need not slam the gate to shut it.

'The other events of that day, including the dropping of the scarab, Ineed not describe, as they are known to you. But I may fitly make afew remarks on the unfortunate tactical error into which I fell inrespect of the bones. That error arose, as you have doubtlessperceived, from the lawyer's incurable habit of underestimating thescientific expert. I had no idea mere bones were capable of furnishingso much information to a man of science.

'The way in which the affair came about was this: the damaged mummy ofSebekhotep, perishing gradually by exposure to the air, was not onlyan eyesore to me: it was a definite danger. It was the only remaininglink between me and the disappearance. I resolved to be rid of it andcast about for some means of destroying it. And then, in an evilmoment, the idea of utilising it occurred to me.

'There was an undoubted danger that the Court might refuse to presumedeath after so short an interval; and if the permission should bepostponed, the will might never be administered during my lifetime.Hence, if these bones of Sebekhotep could be made to simulate theremains of the deceased testator, a definite good would be achieved.But I knew that the entire skeleton could never be mistaken for his.The deceased had broken his knee-caps and damaged his ankle, injurieswhich I assumed would leave some permanent trace. But if a judiciousselection of the bones were deposited in a suitable place, togetherwith some object clearly identifiable as appertaining to the deceased,it seemed to me that the difficulty would be met. I need not troubleyou with details. The course which I adopted is known to you with theattendant circumstances, even to the accidental detachment of theright hand--which broke off as I was packing the arm in my handbag.Erroneous as that course was, it would have been successful but forthe unforeseen contingency of your being retained in the case.

'Thus, for nearly two years, I remained in complete security. Fromtime to time I dropped in at the Museum to see if the deceased waskeeping in good condition; and on those occasions I used to reflectwith satisfaction on the gratifying circumstance--accidental though itwas--that his wishes, as expressed (very imperfectly) in clause two,had been fully complied with, and that without prejudice to myinterests.

'The awakening came on that evening when I saw you at the Temple gatetalking with Doctor Berkeley. I suspected immediately that somethingwas gone amiss and that it was too late to take any useful action.Since then, I have waited here in hourly expectation of this visit.And now the time has come. You have made the winning move and itremains only for me to pay my debts like an honest gambler.'

Mr. Jellicoe did not appear to have heard the question, for hereturned no answer, but sat motionless, leaning back in his chair,with his hands spread out on the table and his strangely intent gazebent on Thorndyke.

Suddenly his head dropped on his breast and his body seemed tocollapse; and as with one accord we sprang to our feet, he slidforward off his chair and disappeared under the table.

'Good Lord! The man's fainted!' exclaimed Badger.

In a moment he was down on his hands and knees, trembling withexcitement, groping under the table. He dragged the unconscious lawyerout into the light and knelt over him, staring into his face.

'What's the matter with him, Doctor?' he asked, looking up atThorndyke. 'Is it apoplexy? Or is it a heart attack, think you?'

Thorndyke shook his head, though he stooped and put his fingers on theunconscious man's wrist.

'Prussic acid or potassium cyanide is what the appearances suggest,'he replied.

'But can't you do anything?' demanded the inspector.

Thorndyke dropped the arm, which fell limply to the floor.

'You can't do much for a dead man,' he said.

'Dead! Then he has slipped through our fingers after all!'

'He has anticipated the sentence. That is all.' Thorndyke spoke in aneven, impassive tone which struck me as rather strange, consideringthe suddenness of the tragedy, as did also the complete absence ofsurprise in his manner. He seemed to treat the occurrence as aperfectly natural one.

Not so Inspector Badger; who rose to his feet and stood with his handsthrust into his pockets scowling sullenly down at the dead lawyer.

'I was an infernal fool to agree to his blasted conditions,' hegrowled savagely.

'Nonsense,' said Thorndyke. 'If you had broken in you would have founda dead man. As it was you found a live man and obtained an importantstatement. You acted quite properly.'

'How do you suppose he managed it?' asked Badger.

Thorndyke held out his hand.

'Let us look at his cigarette case,' said he.

Badger extracted the little silver case from the dead man's pocket andopened it. There were five cigarettes in it, two of which were plain,while the other three were gold-tipped. Thorndyke took out one of eachkind and gently pinched their ends. The gold-tipped one he returned;the plain one he tore through, about a quarter of an inch from theend; when two little black tabloids dropped out on to the table.Badger eagerly picked one up and was about to smell it when Thorndykegrasped his wrist. 'Be careful,' said he; and when he had cautiouslysniffed at the tabloid--held at a safe distance from his nose--headded: 'Yes, potassium cyanide. I thought so when his lips turned thatqueer colour. It was in that last cigarette; you can see that he hasbitten the end off.'

For some time we stood silently looking down at the still formstretched on the floor. Presently Badger looked up.

'As you pass the porter's lodge on your way out,' said he, 'you mightjust drop in and tell him to send a constable to me.'

'Very well,' said Thorndyke. 'And by the way, Badger, you had bettertip that sherry back into the decanter and put it under lock and key,or else pour it out of the window.'

'Gad, yes!' exclaimed the inspector. 'I'm glad you mentioned it. Wemight have had an inquest on a constable as well as a lawyer. Good-night, gentlemen, if you are off.'

We went out and left him with his prisoner--passive enough, indeed,according to his ambiguously worded promise. As we passed through thegateway Thorndyke gave the inspector's message, curtly and withoutcomment, to the gaping porter, and then we issued forth into ChanceryLane.

We were all silent and very grave, and I thought that Thorndyke seemedsomewhat moved. Perhaps Mr. Jellicoe's last intent look--which Isuspect he knew to be the look of a dying man--lingered in his memoryas it did in mine. Half-way down Chancery Lane he spoke for the firsttime; and then it was only to ejaculate, 'Poor devil!'

Jervis took him up. 'He was a consummate villain, Thorndyke.'

'Hardly that,' was the reply. 'I should rather say that he was non-moral. He acted without malice and without scruple or remorse. Hisconduct exhibited a passionateless expediency which was dreadfulbecause utterly unhuman. But he was a strong man--a courageous, self-contained man, and I had been better pleased if it could have beenordained that some other hand than mine should let the axe fall.'

Thorndyke's compunction may appear strange and inconsistent, but yethis feeling was also my own. Great as was the misery and sufferingthat this inscrutable man had brought into the lives of those I loved,I forgave him; and in his downfall forgot the callous relentlessnesswith which he had pursued his evil purpose. For it was he who hadbrought Ruth into my life; who had opened for me the Paradise of Loveinto which I had just entered. And so my thoughts turned away from thestill shape that lay on the floor of the stately old room in Lincoln'sInn, away to the sunny vista of the future, where I should walk handin hand with Ruth until my time, too, should come; until I, too, likethe grim lawyer, should hear the solemn evening bell bidding me putout into the darkness of the silent sea.